


The Secret Chord Job

by MinervaNorth



Series: Leverage International: Europe West [1]
Category: Leverage, White Collar
Genre: A LOT OF WHUMP, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Whump, of course it's a complicated past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-16 06:55:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21503716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinervaNorth/pseuds/MinervaNorth
Summary: Unfortunately for Charlie Novak, the job offer she just received may be her last. Shot and dying, her last resort is to track down a former ally, one she hasn’t spoken to in ten years– Eliot Spencer. With the people who want to kill her hot on her tail, it’s up to Charlie, the members of Leverage International, and some of her old friends to clean up the mess. All she had to do was forget how much she loved Eliot.
Relationships: Eliot Spencer/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Leverage International: Europe West [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1542628
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23
Collections: Finished will re-read





	1. I can’t predict my path, but they can’t fully see my past

Status report: gunshot wound to left thigh. Bullet still inside. Bleeding, not enough to have hit a major artery. Gunshot wound to right shoulder. Again. Why is it always in the shoulder? Bleeding. Through and through. Bullet graze to left side. No visual. Bleeding. Possible dislocated shoulder, right.

With my left hand, I’m trying to stop the bleeding from my thigh. With my right, I press a hand to my side. It’s all I can do not to collapse.

I try not to leave bloodstains on the sidewalk as I shuffle down Berkeley Street. I’m not being followed—not anymore, since they shot me again—but I just… I have to find their HQ. Their HQ, Leverage International, the Boston office, in the back of a bar on Bolton Street in South Boston. John McRory’s Place. Everyone knows that. Ever since the black book went onto the dark web. The right people know where to find them.

There’s an overpass ahead. Even without the moon to brighten the sky and light my way, I can see it with each flash of lightning. God. The gusts of wind—they threaten to knock me over. I’m gonna fall over, into the street, and then I’m done. I’m done. I’m kind of fine with it.

Another crash of lightning and thunder. I’m almost there. Almost there—I fight through the rain, I fight through the wind, and make it into the makeshift shelter. I take a second—I lean against a wall, just for a moment, just to regain my strength. But only for a second. If I don’t keep going, I’m going to die here.

They had better be here. I heard they were in town, laying low after a job in Dubai.

Three days. It’s been three days since I’ve seen the light of day. Even now, I’m not—I’m not optimistic.

I’m not sure how long I’m there, but I’m waking up before I realize it, and keep moving. Everything’s throbbing. I’m not sure what else to do. I’m not even sure he wouldn’t kill me on sight.

A few crosswalks. I shuffle, the directions on the signs wavering, fading in and out.

Focus, Charlie. Focus.

I just have to—I just can’t stop. Down the stairs, down to the basement door. It’s unlocked. It’s closed, it closes at two, and the clock on the wall says—around three, but—it has to be here. They have to be here.

The only light on in the bar is the light above the bar. I’m shrouded in darkness, for better or for worse.

“Dammit, Hardison, I thought I told you to stay out of my kitchen,” says the man behind the bar. The only one I recognize. His hair is so much shorter than I remember. He doesn’t look like he should. Ten years—

“It’s not your kitchen, it’s my kitchen. Who bought the property? Me.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care if you bought the property. It was Nate’s to begin with. You own it, but like hell can you run it—”

The two men stop bickering when the woman clears her throat and nudges her head towards me. The one behind the counter flings a towel over his shoulder before all three look at me.

“Eliot—Eliot Spencer,” I say, trying to control the quaver to my voice. I sound hoarse. I sound like I’ve been locked in a warehouse for three days.

“Charlie Novak,” he responds, stepping slowly towards me. “Go to the back,” he says to the others. Neither listen. My eyesight starts to waver. I have three minutes until I lose consciousness now that I know I’m in safety. Well, I might be in safety. We’ll see.

“Wait, Charlie? This is Charlie?” The blonde says, looking to me with a wide smile and then back to Eliot.

“Charlie. As in, beat your ass in Brasov and Lebanon?” the black guy says with a chuckle.

I have two and a half more minutes. I should have more time, but as I approach them, slowly, it suddenly feels like I don’t have a lot of time. “You know that favor you owe me? From Bihać?”

He crosses his arms.

“I’ve come…” I swallow hard, I gasp for breath. I don’t think my lung collapsed. It shouldn’t have. I touch the bar; looking at my fingers, I see they’re covered in blood. I can’t focus. I can’t. I’m fading. “I’ve come to collect on… on…”

The world gets hazy. Everything moves with echoes, with com trails behind them, with a lingering after image when I move. I don’t intend on moving, but I start to lose feeling in my hand—from the gunshot wound, I assume—and it slides off the bar. I can feel the blood dripping from my fingertips.

“Guys, she’s… she’s bleeding,” the blonde says, panic rising in her voice as she stands.

The world tilts. Eliot slides over the top of the bar, landing with what I expect to be a loud thud, but all I feel is a little vibration as I start to fall.

Someone catches me. One minute. The shivering sets in. The floor. It’s staining red where I touch it. Everything I touch stains red.

“We have to get her to a hospital,” who I assume is Hardison mumbles. Maybe he says it louder. All I hear is a mumble. He looks worried. He looks scared.

“No hospitals,” Eliot growls, looking me over. His hair is so damn short. When did he do that? Ten years, Charlie. Ten years. “Three bullet wounds. Possible other injuries.” He swiftly picks me up, like it’s nothing. “We’ve gotta get her to the back.”

“Man, that’s way too much,” Hardison says, “We don’t have that kind of machinery.”

“Parker?”

“On it.”

“She’s A Positive!” He yells back.

I still manage to raise an eyebrow at him. “You remembered.”

We slip through a set of doors and I clutch onto his plaid shirt. It was blue. It was white and blue. Now it’s red. My hand was red. I stain his shirt with blood. I clutch to him. Ten years. It’s been ten years.

“I wouldn’t forget,” he says, laying me out on a hard surface. I see ceiling, then I see Hardison. He’s not like Eliot or I. He’s different. Eliot throws him his towel, and he catches it in mid-air. He’s their hacker.

“Put pressure on her shoulder.”

I barely have time to cringe as they fumble to take my soaked jacket off. Once he does, Eliot wipes the blood off his hands and takes a step back, looking at me. Hardison balls up the towel and pushes it gently against the wound. This time is bad. This time is bad, and we know it.

“Eliot,” Hardison says, but Eliot just looks at me, his hands in the air, like he doesn’t know what to do. For a second, I recognize him. We’re both teenagers again, but I might be hallucinating. He’s blanking, and I’m fading.

“Eliot!”

The harsh tone seems to wake him up, and he focuses. “Find some more towels. And bring some hot water,” Eliot orders and Hardison runs out.

He rips back part of my shirt to look at the slash. The graze wound won’t be the thing that will kill me, but it’s definitely bleeding enough. I waver, watching my hand shake as he pulls it back from my side.

“What the hell happened?” He says through his teeth. I reach up to grasp his shirt. It’s spotty with blood. The likelihood I’ll live through this is low. We both know it. At least I saw him again.

He looks down at my arm, and although I try to hide it, I know he sees it. He sees the marks and he knows what happened. With the towel he’s got in his hand, he wraps up the burn marks.

“Mission Hill,” I say.

“Mission Hill? What are you mixed up in?”

I try to focus my eyes on him, I try to focus on his question, but everything becomes rimmed in black. He looks so different. He is so different. My head starts to lull, but his fingers graze my chin when he turns me back to look at him.

“Novak. You walked a half dozen kilometers with three gunshot wounds and a dislocated shoulder. You can handle this.”

I do smile. I remember the last time I told him the same thing. That was twenty-one years ago. He almost looks the same. Different, but the same. We’re not who we were before. I’m not seventeen anymore.

“Been a while. You gonna apologize for Kiev?” He asks, brushing my hair back from my face. Somewhere in all this, my hair tie had broken. That’s right. I try to focus, but I can’t.

“I didn’t know,” I whisper at the mention of Kiev. “I didn’t know… if you—if you—”

“If I would what?” He exhales lightly, gives me a smirk, narrows his eyes. I know what he’s doing. He’s assessing the situation, keeping me awake.

I’m not sure—not sure it’s working. “I didn’t know—Kiev. If you—Spencer, don’t let me die. Don’t.”

“You got a lot more to answer for before I let you die,” he says, grasping my hand in his.

Hardison comes back with another stack of clean towels and a bucket. “Man, you’re going to owe me new ones,” he says, making a joke but his voice still quavering, as he looks to Eliot.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” Eliot concedes, ripping open the hole in my jeans to get to my thigh. “How bad?”

“Bullet’s still in there,” I say. “Shoulder’s—shoulder’s through and through.”

I look up at the ceiling. The colors mix and fade as my eyes lose focus.

“Take off her shirt. Just get rid of it,” Eliot says, and Hardison—although I’m sure he usually gives his opinion—does as he’s told. He gently lifts me up, just enough to pull my shirt off, then tosses it away. My camisole’s sliced to Hell, so he just cuts it off and cold air finally hits my open wound. It burns. Hardison grabs another towel to staunch the bleeding. I’m suddenly aware that I’m shivering.

“Go to the bar, get me the cheapest vodka you can find.”

“I’m a little busy here making sure she doesn’t bleed to death!”

Parker bursts in. “I got it.” Whatever it is, I feel it burn when it hits my leg. Eliot holds me down at the knee but it doesn’t make it feel any better.

“Parker, gonna need you to get the bullet out,” Eliot says, handing her a tweezers. She takes it willingly, and, with as gentle of a hand as she can muster, starts digging around my thigh wound.

Breathing’s hard enough, but when she does that, I gasp. Even for me, it hurts.

“Hey, hey. Don’t move, Novak. She has to get it out. You know that. Hardison, how’s her shoulder?”

“Still bleeding, man. Give me the vodka.”

He pours it over me, and this one hurts worse; I raise up in retaliation. As I do, Eliot grabs me. I pitch forward into him as he catches me.

“This wouldn’t feel very good even if you didn’t have a bullet wound,” he says, placing his hands on either side of my shoulder. I still manage to smile. Twenty-one years.

“Hardison, help me,” Parker says, and he places his hands on either side of my thigh wound. Her tweezers are sunk almost to her fingers in skin and muscle and blood.

The world spins again. It spins worse than before. I rest my head on Eliot’s shoulder, and without a count, he’s already snapped my shoulder back in place. I can’t even cry out. I’m too hoarse. Instead I lull into him.

I’m fading. I know I am. When I inhale, though, I smell that familiar smell. Eliot: a little blood, leather, and coffee, and the indiscriminate hay smell even in the middle of Boston, even now. It hasn’t changed. Not since New Orleans. It’s enough to make me hold on a little longer. But the black is already coming.

“Spencer,” I begin, but I can’t. I can’t pretend anymore. “I… can’t. I—I need to tell you….”

“She’s lost too much blood,” he says, lowering me back down. I need to tell him. I need to—

“Got it!” Parker exclaims, holding up the bullet that could probably still kill me.

“Good job!” Eliot adds with fake enthusiasm. “Get rid of it, stitch her up. I need blood, Parker.”

She tosses Eliot two bags of red over me. He catches both and starts shoving some plastic tubing into one, but I can’t focus on it. I can’t focus on anything. I let my head lull against Hardison’s arm.

He touches my cheek. “Eliot, she’s goin’ down. She’s ice cold.”

There’s a slight pinch on my left arm, but I can barely feel it compared to everything else.

“Her pulse is sky high. Blood pressure’s probably way down. Parker, can you sew her up while I get her shoulder?”

They all shift, and my eyes can’t keep up. More burning on my side, then a needle sinking into my skin. Once, more, until it’s dull and I can’t feel it anymore. I don’t feel much of anything anymore.

Like a mumble, like a warning, Eliot says, “Keep her awake.”

I can’t take anything more than a short breath, and eyes—I need to close them. Just for a moment. Just to rest.

“Novak. Nov—Charlie!” I hear Eliot’s stern voice, and my eyes fly open. He rests his hand on my cheek, and I try to focus, but it’s not working. It’s not working. I see black, but Eliot, with his hand on my chin, smacks me lightly. “Charlie. You’re gonna meet my buddy Hardison, alright? Alright?”

I nod, barely, I nod.

“Hey, hey. Charlie. Look at me. We’re gonna talk, alright?” I lean my head to the left, away from Eliot working on my shoulder, and try to focus on Hardison. “Hey, baby! I’m Alec Hardison. Nice to meet you.”

“The hacker,” I breathe. 

“That’s me,” he says with a smirk. “You know; we were led to think Charlie Novak was a guy.”

I chuckle, but it hurts, and whatever Eliot does makes me cry out.

“Hey! Hey, look at me. Look over here. Focus on me.”

I look back to Hardison. He swiftly takes off his cardigan and rolls it up. He slips it under my head, and I reach up, grabbing his hand. At first, I miss it. My depth perception is off.

“Thanks.”

“So you and Eliot… know each other?” He says. He’s fishing, running his thumb over the back of my hand. He’s soothing.

“Could say that.”

Without letting go of me, he grabs a towel, dumps it into the hot water, then starts cleaning off my face. When he stops, I see streaks of red on it.

“And how is that…?”

“Croatia.” I lull my head towards Eliot, who has moved on to bandaging my shoulder. He’s involved, but manages to give me a small smirk. Regardless, the makeshift pillow is soft and I rest back onto it, wanting to drift off but knowing they won’t let me.

I just look at the spinning ceiling, hyper aware of the slices on my body, the bullet wounds, the places where I’ve been sewn back together. I’m still shivering. Cold, shallow breathing, weakness. Weak pulse, probably. Lightheadedness. I’ve still lost too much blood. I feel my control on my hand weaken and start to fall, but Hardison holds on to me. I realize eventually he’s taking my pulse and looking to Eliot, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. I’m slipping. I’m still slipping.

“She’s still lost too much blood,” Eliot says, reading my mind. “Parker, you get any more?”

“I grabbed four bags!” she exclaims, but Eliot shakes his head. Parker—yes, Parker, the thief, the newest mastermind this side of the world— “I know you’re O neg, and I’m A neg, but Hardison’s out.”

“She’s gonna die if she doesn’t get more,” he says, rolling up his shirt sleeve. “Parker, help me out.”

“Hardison,” I murmur. I’m finally just—I’m going to… I let my eyes close, but someone smacks my face. I can’t focus my eyes. I can’t slow my breathing. Where—where am I? What happened? How… how am I alive? Eliot… American Eliot, Oklahoman Eliot, the nineteen-year-old I knew Eliot, that’s what. I hear bombs, I hear gunfire. Rapidly spoken Russian. I’ll shoot you. You aren’t going to kill me. Blood and needles and why did he remember my blood type? Because we’re compatible. We’ve always been at least a little compatible, even if it was just by science.

“She’s muttering something about… I don’t know. Bihać? Something about Bihać?”

Eliot just sighs. He sighs heavily.

“That’s all I could hear. Hurry up, Parker, babe, she’s fading fast.”

“I’m working as fast as I can.”

“Don’t let her pass out again, dammit, Hardison!”

“Charlie? Charlie, c’mon. C’mon—“ I nearly succumb to the blackness again, I close my eyes, I’m nearly there. I hear them yell, but it’s indiscernible. I flashback, I flash to the attacks, I’m hyperventilating. I need to breathe. It’s gonna be okay, okay. Him holding me in our shelter as the Serbs bomb Bihać. The fourth, the fifth. Hallelujah…

“—what’s she sayin’?”

“She’s… she’s singing. Or something. Eliot, what the hell?”

I can hear myself. It’s like I’m disconnected from my lips.

“I did my best, it wasn't much, I couldn't feel so I tried to touch…” My voice cracks. “I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you—”

The first time we met. That was the first time we met—

"And even though it all went wrong..." I hear myself drifting.

“We’re losin’ her, man,” Hardison mutters. “I think she’s—“

“Like hell she is.” My name, over and over again, until— “Cvijeta!” Eliot roars. My eyes are open again. Doesn’t mean I’m focusing, but I’m here. I’m awake. Eliot steadies my face in his hands. It’s a familiar gesture. I mean, it’s been a decade, but he’s here, and I’m here—

“What happened? Who did this to you?”

“Declan Swithey,” I say. I’m still not sure, but he’s what happened. “Brandon Foley.” He nods to Hardison, who leaves. I don’t want him to go, but Eliot holds me steady.

“What did he want?”

“A—a job.”

“What kind of job?” Eliot asks, even more angry.

“Don’t know. I refused,” I finish, shivering. I feel myself drifting one last time. This time, I try to hold on, my eyes slipping in and out of focus. I’m stable, I think. It doesn’t feel like it, but I’m stable.

I might live through this, if I can live through the night. The morning.

But they all pull away. Parker looks confused, shellshocked. Eliot’s covered in my blood still. But they’re done. They’re done. I’m still here. Maybe. I’m… I’m here. I’ll be fine. Eliot’s here. He hasn’t tried to kill me yet.

“Go to bed. I’ll finish up,” Eliot says.

“Well, that was an eventful evening,” Parker says cheerfully. They don’t talk anymore until I hear a door shut and the room fall into silence.

The rest I watch like it’s not happening to me: I see a tube flowing red from his arm and a saline bag over his shoulder. He takes the bucket of water and dumps one of the clean towels inside. He starts cleaning the blood off my hands until my knuckles are clean, and wraps more gauze over them until all the cuts and slashes are bandaged. He moves methodically: first, the dripping blood off my arm disappears, and then where it’s collected around my chest. The color must be back in my face, because he pulls the tube from his arm. He stops the bleeding, then throws a bandage over it nonchalantly.

“Can you sit up?”

I shuffle my weight and he goes to help me. I try to do it myself. I can do it myself, I can. I… I can’t, and he bodily heaves me up. I shiver as I sit in my bra while he cleans the wound still open on my back.

“I’m gonna have to—“

“Do it,” I say hoarsely, and he gently unhooks my bra before slipping it off and tossing it to the floor. It’s not like we haven’t been here before. From behind me, he finishes stitching the wound shut then starts wrapping the gauze around my shoulder, across my chest and behind my back so the bandages stay in place, the whole time managing to keep me modest. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen, but the respect is there. I shiver, but it’s probably my wet, cold hair. He wraps it in a towel, squeezing out the excess water.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve comin’ here,” he finally says once he’s finished. He slips the towel off my arm, revealing the cigarette burns up and down the inside of my arm. He doesn’t look at me as he bandages it up.

“You wanna tell me what really happened?” He asks conversationally. I stay silent. I don’t look to where he goes, but he soon returns, holding a plaid shirt sleeve out for me. He actually helps me slip it on, and I button it with one hand as he produces a sling. He easily helps me slip it over my head.

“Seems like you do this a lot,” I say hoarsely. He’s not wearing his blood covered shirt anymore. This time, he comes back wearing his navy undershirt, his arms crossed over his chest. I waver, I want to pass out, I want to lie back down, but instead he scoops me up into his arms. I don’t really pay attention to where we go, but he takes me up a set of stairs, then to an apartment before he lays me down. I sink into the cushions of the couch, thankful for the stuffing. He leans me forward, just enough to put a pillow under my head. “You’re deflecting,” he finally says.

“You’re… different.”

He kneels down next to me. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“Not… not this time.”

He sets his jaw and looks at the floor. “C’mon, Novak.”

“I know.”

“That’s why you came here,” he says.

“I knew you’d help. No matter… no matter what I did. Listen. About Kiev—”

“Go to sleep, Charlie.”

“Thanks, Spencer.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Not the first time.”

“Not… not the last,” I whisper as I fade to black.


	2. This terrible anatomy will surely get the best of me

I don’t know how long it’s been, how long I’ve been asleep, but it doesn’t stop me from just existing in pain. I’m not surprised. I’ve been here before. It’s a normal feeling at this point.

I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but my mouth tastes like garbage and my throat is dry.

Everything aches, from my shoulder to my thigh. It’s a sharp ache, not dull like I’m used to. Like every part of me is on fire.

“Have you figured out who that Declan Swithey guy is?” Parker asks.

“I’ve got some info, but I’m still searchin’,” Hardison says. “You ask her?”

“She hasn’t been awake long enough,” Eliot grumbles. I feel him speak more than hear him. He’s close to me. Someone brushes the hair back from my face.

The next time I hear speaking, it’s Parker.

“—can’t take the honeymoon first. Isn’t that illegal?”

A different voice comes next. A slightly familiar voice. Through a computer speaker. El Salvador. Paris, maybe? Was he… _“What we do every day is illegal, Parker.”_

“I know that,” she scoffs.

I feel like I know him… _“Who’s your friend with the I.V. stand? You pick up another stray?”_

“Oh. Yeah. Charlie Novak. Eliot’s friend.”

 _“Charlie Novak Eliot’s….friend?”_ The guy on the other line asks in disbelief. _“Met her in El Salvador. 2000. I chased her across Paris in 2007. How’d you snag her? Is she dead?”_

“Not if I can help it,” Parker says. “Three bullet wounds.”

_"Someone wants her dead.”_

“Yeah, and once she wakes up, we’re going to find out who.”

_“Probably not a short list. Hey—be careful, Parker.”_

“Love you too, Nate.”

The connection ends, and another person comes into the room.

“She awake yet?” Hardison asks. I just can’t bring myself to open my eyes.

“Nope. It’s been almost a day. Should we try to wake her up?”

“Maybe tomorrow. We’ll see what Eliot…”

I drift away.

“…moved at all?”

“Nope. She shifted positions a little this morning, whimpered because I’m pretty sure she moved onto her side wound, then Hardison helped her readjust, but she didn’t wake up.”

“It’s been a day and a half,” Hardison says. He’s somewhere behind me, and when I finally shift once more and start to open my eyes, he’s the first person I see, albeit upside down. “Hey, girl!”

My mouth tastes worse than before, and my lips are so dry, they’re cracked. Before I try to speak, Parker arrives with a glass of water and Hardison helps me to sit up, although it very nearly makes me dizzy. She holds the glass edge for me while I shakily use my left hand drink the ice cold water. I nearly sputter until the glass is empty.

“You’re slippin’, Novak,” Eliot says, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

“What—what do you mean?”

“Out for a day and a half? You’re better than that.”

“I’ve been shot. Three times. I haven’t slept in days.”

Hardison leans down to me. “Are you like him? He sleeps like, two hours a night.”

“90 minutes,” Eliot corrects.

“What, you can’t?” I ask, yawning. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“8 days.”

“8 days, what?” Hardison asks loudly.

“8 days without sleep,” I say. I’m more disoriented than anything. Getting that much sleep in such a short period of time fucked with my internal clock.

“You people… Man, you’re all sorts of messed up,” Hardison mutters, standing up and throwing his hands in the air.

“What happened?” Eliot says, jumping right in. I know they’re going to make me their next case. They just have to figure out how to approach it.

“Got a call. Declan Swithey. Had a job opening for me—didn’t have details on the job. Said he was a middle man. I get calls like that all the time, so we organized a meet. Abandoned theatre or something in Mission Hill. We talk, I get some information, I refuse. When I leave, I got jumped.”

I finally look over and Parker, looking pensive, nods once to Hardison. Eliot, though, he doesn’t look so convinced.

“I’ll pull a file together.” Hardison walks off deliberately, sitting behind a computer on the table behind the couch.

“So this is what you do now? Fuck over bad guys by being worse guys?”

“Sometimes bad guys make the best good guys,” Parker mutters.

“Guess we got a case,” Hardison says, typing quickly on his keyboard.

Once my eyes start to focus, I realize I’m in their actual headquarters, and the table in front of me is strewn with files and maps and blueprints.

“Can you sit up?”

Parker—the pretty blonde—approaches me, carrying a TV tray of food.

“She didn’t cook that, so you’re safe,” Eliot says, looking at the wall of televisions in front of us. Hardison keeps clicking, and more files come up.

Whatever the soup is, it’s actually good, so I eat it as fast as I can while I watch them work. Parker quickly stands up and joins Eliot, mimicking his stance.

God, my skin still burns. Everything fucking burns.

“Why… why you gotta do that? It makes me uncomfortable. God, please. Get away from me,” Eliot mutters while Parker just inches closer to him. He eventually bails and plops down on the other side of the couch from me, crossing his arms again. He won’t look at me. He won’t for as long as possible. Not until I address Kiev. Now that… now that I’m not dead.

“What’ve we got?” She asks. It seems official as she joins Hardison at the table behind me.

He starts typing and eventually several different images appear on the massive television screen.

“Declan Swithey. Former Irish national, now works as a gun for hire. Nasty history, your typical types of missions: retrievals, murders, kidnappings.”

This is already getting to be a bit much for me, and I try to control my breathing, although it’s getting a little too hot in here. Probably the pain. I’ve been here before.

I glance to Eliot, who pulls out a pair of silver wire framed glasses. I have flashbacks to Belgrade. God, I can’t believe it’s been ten years since I’ve seen him. Not with that short of hair, at least. God. He looks nineteen again.

“He’s seen working alongside Brandon Foley, another Irish national. Did you piss off the Irish or something?”

“Probably. Likely. I’ve pissed off a lot of people.” I say, suddenly out of breath. The pain in my shoulder and leg amps up, and soon it just radiates to the entire middle part of my body.

“I’ll keep digging,” Hardison says. “I haven’t gotten into security cameras yet.”

“What do you mean, you haven’t gotten in yet?”

Hardison looks at Parker like he’s about to snap in a Z-formation. “How long ago did we get to Boston? Two days? I didn’t really expect to need access to security cameras.”

“Well? Hop to it!” She says in a warped mixture of authoritative and enthusiastic.

I can’t eat anymore, so I give up. I drink what I think is Gatorade. There’s a pink swirly straw in it, too, which makes the liquid look purple when I drink. I have to set it down, though, when I get dizzy. I thought we were beyond this. I thought I was off the hook for this. I lean back onto the couch, staving off a shiver, but it sends ripples of pain down my body. I cringe. It’s not like I haven’t been in this kind of situation before. It’ll subside eventually.

I shiver; I ignore it. What’s more important here is figuring out how to get out of this. They—they seem to know what to do. They’ve got this under control. They’ve always had it under control.

I start trying to piece some of it together. The man on the TVs before—I remember him. I remember him in Paris, nine years ago. I remember him in El Salvador. Nate. Nathan Ford. He became a thief not long after he left the insurance business. He was a damn good mastermind, from what I heard.

Me? I don’t have it under control. I don’t even have it close to under control. God, don’t even think about it. Now, with Eliot here… I remember the message, now a year and a half old. Between that and—and who I think did this to me, I can’t…

The pain in my chest, though, gets worse, and I’m suddenly struggling to breathe. Lord, how did it get this bad?

Probably from three days being essentially tortured by Irish nationals.

“Spencer. El—Eliot,” I mutter, and he immediately gets up, approaching me, crouching down on the floor next to me. He starts to say something, but I don’t hear anything.

Before I realize it, I hear my name, frantically called, and feel someone smacking my face.

“—antibiotics, pain killers. Yeah, the strong shit.”

Eliot pulls my shirt apart and fumbles with the bandage on my shoulder.

“She’s going septic,” Eliot grumbles. “Tell Parker she’s gotta kick it up.”

“She heard you,” Hardison says. I try to open my eyes, but everything feels like it’s on fire. I will myself to do it, and I’m rewarded with Hardison calling out, “Hey girl!”

I don’t even want to speak, I want to go back to sleep, but I feel myself get picked up, heaved bodily into the air, and suddenly someone’s carrying me.

“We’re headed upstairs,” Hardison confirms on what I suspect are the comms. I’m gently set down, but I feel like the fever finally sets in. Eliot touches a hand to my forehead.

“I told you we should have gone to the hospital,” Hardison mutters.

“No hospitals!” We both say, albeit a bit slurred from me, but he’s not listening. He’s holding a hand to his ear.

“Vanco—vancomycin, that’s perfect. Grab that.” Eliot says. “Hardison, go downstairs, get one of those big ass pots, yeah? Fill it with water and boil it.”

“The shower’s right there—“

“Dude, don’t test me. She’s got at least two infected gunshot wounds, and it ain’t gonna cut it. Do what I say.”

Hardison disappears, mumbling to himself, and I try to focus on the ceiling again.

“Novak, when are you gonna tell me the truth?” Eliot says, calmly, as he unbuttons my shirt to check my bandages. When I don’t answer, he starts unwinding the bandage on my right arm. Once it’s open to the air, I cringe, but he holds up my hand high enough into the air so I can see the painful burns.

“Don’t. Don’t… do this.”

“Those look, what, two to five days old? How long did they hold you before you escaped?”

“I don’t know what you’re—“ I try, but he clutches my wrist tightly, pulling it up so I can see it better. It wrenches my dislocated shoulder upwards, and I clench my teeth, refusing to cry out.

“Try harder.”

“Two and a half days,” I finally confess. “They grabbed me after I refused to play their game.”

“A shot a day, then?” He asks, but he already knows. “Nah, I got it. First the shoulder, then the burns, then the leg, then the dislocated shoulder when you finally broke loose, with the side graze as you escaped. Did I get that story right?”

I shiver; this time, I can’t control it. The fever’s getting to me, and he knows it. He knows everything. He knows how I’m slipping. He knows how I’ve already slipped.

“Dammit, Novak. Why didn’t you tell me they held you?”

“Didn’t—didn’t want you to think I was goin’ soft,” I say, cringing and shutting my eyes.

“No.” His rough voice goes soft. “Don’t do that. Open your eyes. Listen. What did they want from you? What did they ask? Why’d they keep you alive?”

“They didn’t ask me anything. They were waiting for something. Or someone. I never got anything out of them. I escaped before—before I could find out.”

“Why all the cigarette burns then?”

“Payback,” I say, looking down at my arm. “It was Swithey and Foley. Spencer, why? Why would they offer me a job, then when I try—“

“When you try what?”

“—I tried to walk away. I tried to say no. I told you.”

“So they torture you into doing it?” He asks. “Who would do that?”

“Someone desperate. Someone I’ve wronged.”

“It’s a long list, Novak.”

“You included?” I say. I can’t talk anymore. I just clench my eyes shut, and for once, for the first time in a long time, I feel tears slip out of my eyes. “Spencer, I—“

He cuts me off. “Hey. Listen to me. I’m gonna take care of you, alright?”

I just nod, not ready to open my eyes. I start slipping off to unconsciousness, but before I do, I feel him lightly kiss my forehead.


	3. 'Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t

This time, when I wake up, everything hurts a lot less. I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but what looks like a saline drip hook doesn’t have anything hanging there anymore, and while I feel weak, the pain is nearly gone. Eliot was right, but I’ll never admit it: I should have told him in the first place what happened. It probably would have stopped all of this and let me heal faster, but he knows I’m a little too proud for that.

The alarm clock says 7:33. There’s a sling on the table too, but I ignore it. Before I get up, I make sure to tie the drawstring on my borrowed sweatpants a little tighter—God, I’ve lost too much weight. There’s a crutch propped against the edge of the bed. With a little bit of maneuvering, I get it under my arm enough to balance myself.

I hear a single voice, a one-sided conversation, once I slip out of the bedroom door. Nearby, I see the spiral staircase, and begin to hobble down it. I have to take it one damn step at a time, but about halfway down, I catch the conversation. Eliot has his arms elbow deep in water in the sink, talking but not really making sense.

“—Parker, Parker. Listen to me. You don’t need six boxes of knockoff Froot Loops. I don’t care if you like to eat it at 3 a.m., we don’t need that many. Hardison, I swear, how do you deal with this? … Lord, no, don’t let her—fine. Fine, if you’re gonna do it anyway, just do it. Whatever. We’re gonna have to take a good job here soon to fund her Froot Loops addiction. No, no more pro bono. Legit jobs. Don’t forget the paprika. No, the big tin, what do you think I am, a short order cook?… no. No. Dammit, n—you’re a Froot Loop, Parker!”

My crutch slips, and I slide down a step, grab the railing, and stop so my heart can catch up. I hear Eliot curse, and then he’s there, wiping his hands on the towel he slings over his shoulder. Reaching for my hand then slipping his arm around my waist, he helps me hobble down the last few steps. Once we get there, he snatches the crutch that had betrayed me and hands it back to me.

“You’re alive,” is all he says before headed back to the kitchen. Then, without looking at me, he says, “Of course she’s up. Why would I say that to you?”

“Are you talking on the comms while Parker and Hardison are at the supermarket?”

He side-eyes me. “Maybe. Why? Don’t answer that, Parker. You’re in the checkout? Good.”

He pulls the earbud out then turns it off before returning it to the makeshift tech table they have set up. I heave myself up onto a bar stool and as soon as he comes back, we’re staring at each other from across the kitchen island. I almost think about making fun of his blue and white apron, but I don’t have the energy.

We stare for a while, but Eliot breaks.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were held up?”

“Thought you’d think I was slipping.”

“Try again,” he harrumphs.

“Because no one should be able to take me like that.”

“And why did they?”

“I was distracted.”

“Why’s that?”

“Spencer, I don’t know. It’s the first time I’ve been back in Boston for a long time, and—and—“

“Did you know I was here?”

I sigh heavily. “I had an idea.”

We both get quiet. He would tell me I couldn’t let it get in the way. It. Kiev.

It’s been ten years since we spoke, but it feels like a hundred with the differences between us.

I try it anyway.

“Last time I saw you, you almost killed the Butcher of Kiev.”

He chuckles, but only once. “Yeah. Almost killed him again a couple years back.”

“I’m sure it was somehow ironic and epic,” I say, adjusting in my seat. It’s not pleasant, not with the thigh wound.

“I think it was a saucepan, whisk, serving tray, and a dash of lemon juice.”

“What the hell, were you undercover as a cook?”

“I prefer chef, actually. At a mobster’s daughter’s wedding.”

He leans onto the counter top, this time, chuckling. He laughs. Eliot laughs now. That’s a new thing I don’t recall seeing. Not for a long time. It’s jarring. It’s new. I’m still trying to decide whether I like it or not.

I should tell him. I need to tell him. He deserves to know about Oklahoma.

“Don’t think I’m done asking you what really happened,” he suddenly says, the laugh leaving his lips like a forgotten echo. It’s gone before it really even starts.

“Not right now. I’m too tired for that right now.” Even if I’m the one who brought it up, I’m already getting tired.

“But you were distracted, weren’t you?” He says, pointing at me with a large knife as he goes back to doing dishes.

“They shot me before I knew it, and there wasn’t much I could do. I stuck around to try to get more information from them, but it just made it worse, you know? When I realized they couldn’t give me anything and would more than likely kill me, I made a break for it.”

“They had better not be able to find you. If they burn this place, I’ll be pissed. I actually like this one.”

“You do this a lot, then? Hide your HQs behind breweries and gastropubs and bars?”

“Hardison likes to manage them,” is his entire explanation.

“And you like to develop the menus, right?”

He doesn’t respond. I slide gently off the bar stool to grab a glass he’s just cleaned to get some water.

“Coulda done that,” he mutters.

“I need on my feet,” I say, breathing heavily.

He exhales loudly when I get back to my bar stool and I try again. Try again to get something out of him.

“New Orleans—“

“Don’t,” he immediately says. “Don’t do this. I know what you’re doin’. I don’t want you to do it.”

The door suddenly opens, and I jump, slamming my hand against the counter. Hardison and Parker wander in, each carrying arms full of shopping bags. When I turn back to Eliot, he hasn’t even reacted. He finishes the dishes like nothing’s happened. How do they even live like this?

“Hey girl!” Hardison says, setting down the bags on the counter top beside me. “Alec Hardison, at your service.” He extends his hand to me. “Good to see you up!”

Parker looks at me, tilts her head innocuously, then drops her stuff and pulls herself up onto the counter.

“That—that’s Parker,” Hardison says, pointing to her. She grabs a box of Froot Loops, opens it up, and shoves a handful in her mouth.

“Hi, Parker.”

“Hey.” I’m pretty sure she descends into a food coma.

“What’d you find out?” Eliot says, taking the box away from her.

“Hey!” She scrambles, nearly falling off the cabinet. He holds it over her head.

“I’m gonna make breakfast, will you calm down?”

Hardison perks up. “Jambalaya?”

“If y’all’ll calm down, yeah! Will you tell me what you found?” He pulls out a carton of eggs and sets it next to Parker; she leans around to fumble with the cupboard until she finds a big enough bowl. The conversation moves as quickly as they do.

“They’re holed up in that abandoned theatre. It’s on Smith Street. They were talking about an old partner. Name’s Alan Woodford. There was this big bust a couple of years ago,” Hardison says. He starts mixing up what I assume is his breakfast jambalaya before passing the mixture off to Parker to add eggs, while Eliot makes what I think is sausage gravy while biscuits bake in the oven.

“That Declan is a bad dude,” he adds.

“He smells like… like grass and bad meat,” Parker continues. Hardison doesn’t even say anything. He just kind of lets it go. Parker and Hardison mix up pancake batter. Parker just manages to get it on herself, but Hardison pauses to allow for Eliot to add a little vanilla. The things you learn from other people.

“Alright. So Woodford. Had a little thief crew, but one of the members, Neal Caffrey, he sold out his little con artist group to the Feds, right?”

“The Pink Panthers,” Parker says with a flourish.

I sink down into my seat. I know who’s after me. I know who it is, but like hell am I going to say anything. Give them time. Let them—let them find it out on their own.

“After Caffrey gets killed, all the Panthers go to jail, including their boss, Alan Woodford. We think they’re working with him. He’s servin’ life, but we think he’s still pullin’ the strings.”

Oh God, let’s hope so. Let’s hope it’s this Woodford and not who I think it is.

“So, what’s their plan? What’d they want with Charlie?” Eliot asks.

“Well, uh, since you went…” Hardison seems to look for the right word, “… kinda straight, Charlie’s the best fixer out there now. Seems like they’re tryin’ to assemble a team to break Woodford out.”

“And we’re out of play,” Parker says. “So who are our options now? Who would we pick to break a guy out of prison?”

I wrack my brain. Hardison says something about Sophie Devereaux being out of the game, and it’s a shame. She was one of the best.

But I’ve got an option.

“For grifter, you’ve got the Virtuoso,” I say. The room gets dangerously quiet.

“You know the Virtuoso?” Parker says, obviously amazed. “How?”

I smirk. “We go way back. Trust me. They’d go with her. She’s a pretty amazing thief, too.”

“Her…” Parker mutters.

“Hacker. Chaos?”

All three answer with a resounding “no”.

“We could use Ulalume?” I suggest in lieu of Chaos. He always seemed to like me. I tolerated him.

“Ulalume?” Parker asks. “Never heard of her.”

“Zante, Aristogeiton. She’s got a few names.”

“You trust her?” Eliot asks. I notice Hardison says relatively quiet. Freakishly quiet. I’m not ready to address it. I don’t know him well enough.

“I trust her.”

“You’ve got a hitter,” Hardison says, pointing to me.

“What about Mikel?” I ask, looking to Eliot. “Or Quinn?”

“They’re not gonna go after anyone else,” Hardison says. “They’ve got you. They want you.”

Dammit. Dammit, and I know why. I make eye contact with Eliot, and he squints barely at me.

He knows. He has to know, but he just finishes cooking and starts laying it all out in front of us. It’s a spread that I suddenly have no appetite for.

“So we hire a replacement crew. We figure out what they want, and sabotage it,” Parker says with a mouthful.

“She’s going to have to get better first,” Hardison says, pointing at me while I pick at my pancakes.

“Give me like, three days.”

“You had two infected gunshot wounds,” Hardison says, like it’s a big deal.

“Hey, Novak, how many times you been shot now?” Eliot says, standing up.

I have to take a moment to count, and it visibly irritates Hardison.

“I’m up to twelve,” I finally say. Hardison glares at me, then Eliot.

“What about you, man?” Hardison asks. The last time I remember, he was at 7.

“Me too. The first time we’ve ever been close to even,” he says, nodding once to me.

Someday, I may apologize. I’m just not ready to do it today.

* * *

I sleep for a while, and by the time I wake up, they’re down at the bar, sitting with only a member or two of the late, late crowd. I ditch the crutch—I’d rather hobble—and manage to hear part of their conversation as I join them.

“About 90 percent of it is classified,” Eliot says, pouring himself a beer from the tap. “Stop askin’.”

“That’s not what we’re askin’,” Parker says, sharing a long look with Hardison. “Not about the missions.”

“You wanna know if we were personally involved?” Eliot asks, and I smirk. He sets his jaw when he’s nervous. And when he’s about to hit something, so I guess it’s a moot point. “You wanna know? No, I’m not tellin’ you!”

I slip out of the back of the bar, and all three of them look at me. I manage a grin. I think.

“Hey!” Parker calls out, immediately coming over to me to help me hobble to a barstool. Her barstool, I see. She sidles up to the other side of the bar with Eliot while Hardison holds out a hand to make sure I get balanced.

“What’s it take to get service around here?”

“You shouldn’t be drinkin’,” Eliot says, pulling out two glasses: a beer glass and a whiskey glass. Like he wasn’t even listening to himself, I point to the whiskey glass and he pours me some anyways.

“We were just talking about how you two met,” Parker says, crunching on bar pretzels. Eliot nudges her hard enough to make her move. “What?! I wanna know!”

Eliot and I share a quick look. He’s serious, he’s quiet, until he just gives me a small smile. I’m glad I’m sitting down, but we both know that this story isn’t going to be remotely true.

“Remember what I said about Croatia?” He looks to Hardison, who nods, and Parker leans in. “We weren’t in Croatia.”

I chuckle a little. We’re going far back this time. Parker looks at me like a child waiting for a bedtime story, so I launch into some decimated version of the truth.

“I was born in Zagreb, but in the early 90s, there was the Homeland W—the Croatian War for Independence. I think it was summer, 1995?”

Eliot just finishes his beer instead of responding. He knows all I’m going to be doing is lying.

“I had moved to Bosnia—Bihać—prior to the war, then got stuck there during the Siege. I was helping out at the hospital.” It’s been years since I’ve really thought about this. Over twenty, in fact, and the fear, the sickness, the complete and utter destruction, still seeps into my soul. “It wasn’t—we weren’t—“

Eliot senses my distress and jumps in. “I’d been shot a few times. Found my way to Bihać.”

“He shouldn’t have been there,” I add.

“Anyway, instead of takin’ me to the hospital, she took me in.”

We’re on a roll now. “I couldn’t say no. I really had no idea what I was doing,” I say. “He had been hit a few times. I had never dealt with a bullet wound before. Neither had he. But I patched him up and I hid him there. He started to teach me English; he taught me some of his skills. We held out, though, against the Serbs. We kept it together,” I say.

“I was there for a month before the Siege was lifted,” he says, looking to me. Both of us know my storytelling is shrouded in lies. But for some reason, I can see a little bit more of old Eliot, the Eliot I remember, in his blue eyes. It lifts my heart a little. “God, how old were you?”

I have to do the math. “You were nineteen, so I was seventeen.”

Hardison lets out a low whistle. “You’ve known each other for that long? Damn.”

Parker just stares at the wood of the bar. “You’re not even American?! You don’t even have an accent!”

“That’s your take away?” Eliot says, but then doesn’t seem to be surprised.

“Keep telling the story,” Hardison says. “I wanna know this whole shit show.”

“He got shipped home,” I say, shrugging, then cringing. Shoulder still hurts. “In terms of the profession, well… I liked what I was doing, so I kept at it.”

“Did you ever meet up again?” Parker says, perking up.

Eliot and I share a long look. This time, it’s us deciding what to say. I go all in, still weaving the lie.

“The first time we found each other was in Marrakech. Three years later. He had no idea I was retrieving. We had a nice long talk about it, and then didn’t think we’d see each other again. I think the next time was two years later. 2000. In Lebanon,” I say. “We had a slight disagreement over some merchandise. I won. But then he kicked my ass in El Salvador later that year, so I guess it was fair.” Now I’m on a roll. “2002, we were in the States. Louisiana, right?”

He nods, not looking at me. “Carrolton.” He knows I remember. I wouldn’t forget New Orleans.

“Carrolton, in New Orleans. The first time we actually worked together,” I say. I can’t help but drift away for a second. New Orleans. The first time we actually worked together, the first time we actually forgave each other since Bosnia. I can’t hide my smirk. I see Parker lightly elbow Hardison, and the two of them start grinning.

“Is that what they’re callin’ it?” Hardison interjects. “’Workin’ together?’”

“Dammit, Hardison—“

“Pretty uneventful job,” I articulate. “We went our separate ways for a while after. I kicked his ass again in Brasov, but he forgave me for it. Worked our way through Belgrade together in 2005. We got involved in a little incident there, then teamed up for a little while. We ran to Satu Mare to lie low.”

Whatever happiness we had before, it fades away at the mention of Belgrade. Belgrade was bad enough, but with what happened between the two of us… it didn’t help matters.

“Then it was Kiev.”

I exhale heavily, then finish the rest of my whiskey. Hardison immediately pours me more, and I down that as well. He gives me a little more.

“Kiev was—“

“I’m gonna check on the kitchen,” Eliot mutters, slamming his beer onto the bar and heading off. Hardison and Parker watch him as he goes, but I stare into my drink instead.

“He’s mad,” Parker says with a childlike quality that makes her that much more endearing. “What happened in Kiev?”

I finish off my glass, but this time, Hardison doesn’t fill it. I finally just take a breath. This is the part of the story that’s true. That much I know.

“The last time I saw him was Kiev. That was 10 years ago. I… I made some mistakes in Kiev. I said some things I probably shouldn’t have said. After that, he went off with your team. I worked alone. And now… now we’re here.”

“Damn girl. You must have messed up in Kiev,” Hardison says, looking to the still swinging kitchen doors.

I did. I did mess up in Kiev, and I’m still paying for it.


	4. I’m still in it even though it’s over

The next day or two are uneventful: in fact, the team—as they like to be called—take a quick job before addressing mine. At the time I meander to Hardison, who sits at his table in front of his computers, Parker and Eliot are on the tail end of the con. A Fiddle Game, Hardison called it, and their client is about to get their money back from whatever corporation fucked them over.

“So this is what you do?” I ask, rolling up the sleeves of Eliot’s plaid shirt after handing Hardison an orange soda. He looks completely shocked.

“What? Did you just—you got me a drink. Look at you, bein’ a team player,” He mutters, opening the bottle. After a pause, he pulls out an extra comm and hands it to me. I place it in my ear as I snark at Hardison.

“Hey. Just ‘cause I’m a fixer doesn’t make me heartless.”

“I never said that. No one ever said that.”

 _“I’ve said that,”_ Parker adds, much to Eliot’s hiss of her name under his breath.

“Eliot—don’t go down that hallway. You’re gonna run into the mark. Turn left, you’ll be out of the way, my man.”

 _“Thanks,”_ Eliot grunts.

“Parker, babe, you out?”

_“I’ve been out. I’m waiting on Eliot.”_

_“I’m here.”_ He grumbles.

_“Where you been?”_

_“Had to punch a guy!”_ The car door slams. _“Hardison, we’re out. Police are here. We’re gonna meet up with the client and then head back.”_

“Roger that, E. Another Fiddle Game, another week, right?”

 _“Hardison, you want tacos?”_ Parker calls. _“I want tacos!”_

Eliot sighs heavily. _“I can make you tacos when we get home.”_

_“I don’t want your tacos. We’re in Boston. I want El Triunfo!”_

I laugh while Eliot groans. _“She ain’t gonna shut up ‘til we get ‘em.”_

“You want tacos?” Hardison asks, pointing to me.

Put on the spot, I don’t know what to say—“Uh, sure?”

 _“Charlie’s on the comms?”_ Parker asks enthusiastically. _“Hey, Charlie!”_

Eliot, on the other hand, doesn’t make a sound. Not that I’m surprised. He’s still sore about the discussion from last night.

“Parker, you know what I want. Charlie?”

I shrug. “Uh, surprise me?”

“You know what to do, Parker,” Hardison says. “Turnin’ off the comms now.”

He pulls his out, so I do too and hand it back to him. “That was interesting. You do that a lot?”

“That’s pretty much how we operate,” he says coolly. “Have been for about eight years.”

“That’s a helluva long time for a crew of your status,” I say. “I’ve known about you lot for about five years.”

“What set you off?”

“How did I find out? To be honest? Damien Moreau,” I say, adjusting in my seat. “He and I…”

“Lemme guess. You had a history?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we did.”

Hardison turns towards me. “Were you there the same time as E?”

“Belgrade,” I say under my breath. Hardison just nods.

“Heard a little bit about that. Eliot… he don’t talk much about his past, you know?”

“I know. I don’t like talking about it either. But I do. I have to. It’s the only way I… I get past it.”

“If you regret the things you’ve done, why don’t you get out?”

I look at him, I look at him hard, and we sit in silence. He visibly gets uncomfortable. It takes me a while, but he’s patient. I clear my throat before I speak.

“The thing is, I don’t have a good enough answer for you, Hardison. You heard my history. You heard what I’ve done. I… I don’t know what I would do if I did anything else.”

“You could switch over.”

“Like you all?” I scoff.

“Yeah,” Hardison says emphatically. “Yeah, like us all. What’s stoppin’ you?”

“Uh, I don’t have a crew, first of all?”

“Girl, there are plenty of people out there you can use to make a crew. But that ain’t the thing holdin’ you back, is it?”

I fiddle with the bandage on my arm. He’s turning the tables on me now, the damn grifter.

“What really happened in Kiev?”

“I shouldn’t say,” is my immediate reaction.

“Girl. Charlie,” he starts in a syrupy voice. I know his game, but I’m not strong enough to fight it. “I held your hand while a bullet was getting pulled out of your thigh. I kept you awake while we patched you up. I listened to your awful, awful singing. I don’t know if that was the injuries talkin’, or whether you’re really that bad, but girl, if youre gon’ do that, you need lessons or something—“

“It was Moreau,” I blurt. He visibly moves backward from me, but now I can’t shut up. He wanted to know, and no one else knows, other than Eliot. He—he has to know. Someone does. “I was doing hits for him. They started calling me C4. I—I—“

“You?! You’re C4?”

“Don’t. Don’t—don’t do this right now. Let me finish. Okay? Please let me finish. Moreau… he ditched me in Nigeria. I got caught. I got stuck in a Nigerian prison. For th-three months.” I can’t think about it. I can’t. If I do, I’ll spiral, at the PTSD will get the better of me. “Three months. I, uh, Moreau bartered for my release, on the condition I come back to work for him. Two years.”

“Until Kiev.”

“Until Kiev,” I repeat. “Eliot—he, uh, he found me there. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but ultimately, Moreau said if I killed him, my deal was off. I’d get my year and a half back. But I couldn’t. Not with our… not with our history.”

“What’d you do?”

Staring at the wood grain, I continue. It’s easier now. “I backed him up to the river. I tried to stall, I had a plan, but I took too long. The sniper Moreau had shot me,” I place a hand on my left shoulder, “—and hit El. He fell back into the river, I set off my bomb nearby, and we escaped in the haze.”

“What did Moreau do?”

“He declared he would have me killed if he found out Eliot was alive. When he did—couple years back—he started to come after me, but fortunately, you all got him behind bars in San Lorenzo before he could make it happen. So thanks for that.”

He nods, smirks, and tries to act humble, but I know he enjoys the recognition. They don’t get recognized a lot for what they’ve done, I know that much. They wouldn’t be doing it if that were the case. But he appreciates it. I know he does. He should—he saved my life.

“So why does Eliot still seem to harbor a sort of… resentment?” He articulates, finishing off his orange soda. “Seems like he’s got a lot of hatred, and a lot of it is gettin’ directed at you.”

“For the Kiev incident.”

He shakes his head. “There’s gotta be more, girl. There has got to be more.”

“Why are you this way? Why do you have to push so hard?” I sigh, leaning onto the table.

“It’s good for you,” he says, going back to the fridge. I stare at the empty room, the large screen televisions on the wall, and I continue. At least a little bit, anyway. Hardison doesn’t need to know the entire story.

“My original plan was to shoot him and push him into the river, then set off the bomb, like I told you,” I explain. “But the sniper got in the way. I took too long.”

“You hesitated,” he says, sitting back down and handing me a glass of ice water. I don’t know how he knew, but I take a long drink, then rest my shaking hands on the condensation.

“I hesitated.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “Why’d you hesitate?”

“I told you. I’ve known Eliot for over twenty years.”

“What’d you do to him that made both of you drop off the planet for half of it?”

“I… I said some things—“

“You probably shouldn’t have said, yeah. That’s what you said. Word for word. Listen. I’m here for you. You’re not just another client to us. You’re Eliot’s friend.”

I pick at the scabs on my knuckles. “Friend’s putting it nicely.”

“What happened?” He says. This time, it’s not a question anymore. I think about it. What do I have to lose? What the hell do I have to lose? It’s Alec Hardison. Best hacker in this continent. Probably the world. It’s a possibility. What’s he going to do to me? What can he possibly—

“Oh, jebiga,” I curse.

“Alright. Alright, that sounded a bit hinky, but alright.”

“He told me he should have never come to me for help. When I—we… when we were in Bosnia. He called me a traitor.”

“Ouch.”

“I told him we couldn’t change it. We couldn’t change anything. I told him… I said I didn’t want to say goodbye to him. Because I knew… I knew if I did what I had to do, I’d never see him again. But I never wanted to say goodbye. Not in the how many times we had found each other over the years. It never should have… I never thought I could… I… we…” I take a sharp breath, suddenly aware of the tears falling down. I don’t even try to stop them. “He—Eliot—I…”

Hardison, dear empathetic Hardison, immediately makes a face of recognition. “You never stopped. You never stopped, did you?”

“No. I never stopped. I still…” Admitting it would make it so much worse, so I stop myself. “But I made promises. I made promises I didn’t keep. So I guess that’s why I don’t stop doing what I do. That’s why I work alone. Because I’m just gonna betray the next person that I—that I…”

I drift, and he lets it happen.

“Charlie. Uh, permission to hug?”

I don’t know exactly what to do. The last person to touch me… I’m usually punched or kicked or abused. A hug… “Permission granted.”

He stands up and envelopes me in his arms, pulling me into his chest. At first, I don’t know what to do. He’s the first person to hug me in… I—I don’t even know how long. It’s so easy for him, and he rests his chin on my head, letting me embrace him for as long as I need. I inhale; he smells like orange soda, and what I think is sandalwood, and… lens cleaning fluid. It’s a change from blood and sweat. I feel the tense, taut muscles in my shoulders and chest start to loosen a little. The relaxing makes me tired.

With a light kiss on the top of my head, he pulls out his sleeve and wipes the tear streaks from my face.

“Feel any better?”

“I do.” For the first time in a long time, I’m telling the truth. “Thanks, Hardison.”

“Anytime, girl.”

* * *

Two and a half days later, after a trip to the thrift store to get me some actual clothes, I’m headed back to Mission Hill to talk with the men who nearly killed me.

“You don’t have to go in alone, you know,” Eliot mutters over the comm he gave me.

“I’m not alone,” I whisper. “Everyone in position?”

I know Eliot’s waiting outside in the van with Hardison. Parker’s waiting in the rafters, somewhere on the second floor, just in case I need back up or to be my eyes. They all make their noises of affirmation and I stride in, trying not to limp. My leg’s nearly healed, but I don’t want them to see any negative aspects of what they did to me.

I hide my device in my jeans pocket. Call it a backup plan.

I don’t pay attention to the domed ceiling, the bright paint, the rows of chairs. Like an old Western, the two stand in front of me, just far enough away to get in a few shots, in silence. I stare at the two of them until Foley breaks, then I start circling them. Gotta find a good place to set my device, just in case.

“You’re in one piece.”

“You seem surprised.”

“A little. You left our party in a hurry.”

I cross my arms. “Wasn’t havin’ fun anymore.”

“Stop tap dancing,” Eliot groans.

“I’m in. What’s the gig?” I say, slipping the device out of my pocket. When I slide past the stage, I easily wedge it beneath some large pieces of debris.

Swithey seems a little less enthusiastic. “Just like that? You’re gonna take the job?”

“I need the money, and I’m bored, quite frankly. You both didn’t really keep my interest for long.”

Both of them case me for a moment, share a quick look, then turn back to me. While they converse, I pull out my butterfly knife and start swinging it around my hand.

“Prison break,” Swithey says. “New York.”

“I want my own team,” I say. “I assemble it, my rules, you tell me what you want done, and let me take control.”

Foley whispers to Swithey. “You think Woodford would go for that?”

“I don’t think he cares. She knows what’s at stake. She knows what we can do to her.”

“I can hear you both, dumbasses,” I say. “Alan Woodford.”

“Sing Sing. Supermax prison.”

I start to pace. “It’s doable. I’ll need a thief and a hacker, at least. Maybe a grifter, depending on the plan.”

“Why does it always have to be Supermax?” Hardison groans over the comm.

“You have a plan?” I ask, slipping my hands in my pockets.

“A plan? Nope. That’s what you’re for,” Swithey says. “You’ve got three weeks.”

“Three weeks?!” Hardison squeaks. “We don’t even have a man on the inside!”

“I expect my usual fee,” I say.

“Woodford said that’s not a problem,” Foley says immediately.

And with that, I turn tail and leave. Over my shoulder, I hear Swithey, in desperation, yell, “do we have a deal?”

“What the fuck do you think?” I say, traipsing out of the theatre. God, my leg burns, but I keep up my exit. I have to look invincible. It’s better press that way.

When we all reconvene at the van, all three of them look equally cross.

“Three weeks?” Eliot begins.

“We’ve got to assemble a whole new crew, get to New York, and break out this world class thief from Sing Sing in three weeks, then figure out how to frame them all?” Hardison continues.

Parker, though, seems to be adding it up. “Nah. I think we can do this.”

“Thank you, Parker. You’re the only one with some sense.”

“Parker? Sense?” Eliot mutters. “Twenty pounds of crazy.”

“Five-pound bag,” Hardison completes. The two of them slap hands twice, then fist bump.

“Let’s go steal a supermax prison,” Parker says, getting behind the wheel of the van.

“No. You can’t do that,” Eliot mutters. “No. Why—don’t. Just let me drive. Four years, and you can’t get the phraseology right.”

Hardison gestures to the sliding door of the van and lets me in first.

“Ever the gentleman, right, Hardison?”

“I try, girl. I try.”

I settle into one of the seats while he slides shut the door. “Is that because you know I could straight up kick your ass?”

He nods slowly. Eliot, who’s taken control of the van and pushed Parker to the passenger seat, throws a glance back at the two of us.

“I told ‘em about Brasov and Lebanon,” he explains.

Hardison shivers in response, but still manages to give me a slight grin.

“What was that? Fear?” I ask, glaring at him.

“All I know is if someone kicks E’s ass, I know they can kick mine.”

“Don’t you forget it,” I mutter under my breath.

“So, what’s our first objective?” Parker asks, spinning in her seat.

“Assemble the crew,” I say.

* * *

I send up a flare for the Virtuoso. I don’t know where she is anymore, but I send her the usual text message to her burner phone. I’m not positive if she still has it. Let’s hope she does.

We wait for some time, and nothing comes. We wait, we get back to the bar, and I watch my phone with bated breath.

“How long do you think it’s gonna take?” Parker asks, staring at my phone.

“Don’t know. I don’t know where she is now.”

“You think she’s gonna call?” Parker continues. She won’t stop looking at my phone, dammit.

“She’ll call.”

“What’s she look like? What’s her name?”

Hardison steps in, pulling Parker back from her creepy stare. “Alright. That’s enough. Hey, Parker. Parker. Why don’t we go out for a while?”

“Out?” She asks, raising an eyebrow at Hardison. “Out, like, out-out?”

“Yes, baby. Out-out. Like, out. Away from here. Not—not here.”

I look from Hardison to Eliot. Eliot blankly stares at me, then Hardison. We both know what Hardison is trying to do. I try to send him silent messages not to, but he doesn’t catch on.

Parker’s the one who figures it out last. “Oh! Oh, I get it! You want Eliot and Charlie to talk!”

“Yes. Yes, baby,” Hardison whispers. “Let’s go case the MFA.”

“I’ll get my rig,” Parker immediately says, getting up from her seat. Once she heads upstairs, Hardison gives us both the thumbs up.

“Sorry… sorry, E. Charlie. Uh. Yeah. You know. Gotta—gotta go get my girl—“

“Why don’t you go do that?” Eliot says sharply.

“Have—have fun, you two!” Hardison says, running off.

Once they finally officially leave, we’re left in silence. An awkward one, at that. Already, we’re quiet people, but when something like that happens, we’re definitely at a loss for words. In fact, with a harrumph, Eliot pulls his apron from the cabinet—the blue and white one with the lace—and angrily ties it on.

“Something bothering you, Spencer?”

He doesn’t say words. He just grumbles under his breath and turns on the oven. I watch him silently: from the pantry, he pulls a pile of potatoes and washes them, peels them, then starts to cut them. By the time he pulls out a skillet with butter melting inside, I’m watching intently. He starts sautéing the potatoes. At least, I think that’s what he’s doing. I’m not quite positive. I’ve never been anything close to a cook. I’m usually happy if I can have a decent meal in a day. He keeps cooking, though, and he starts seasoning beef in a skillet and begins searing it on the stove top.

“Okay, don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying this, but what the hell is going on?”

“I was with that PMC.”

“First or second?”

“Second,” he says, continuing his work. He doesn’t look at me. “Recon in Belgium. Met a guy at the restaurant we were checkin’ out. I stuck around. He taught me to cook.”

He puts the potatoes in another type of bakeware and slides them in the oven before doing the same to the beef.

“Why did you never tell me?”

“We were usually busy,” he says. I see a little bit of a smirk, but it falls away quickly. He starts throwing a bunch of things in a saucepan, and I’ve kind of gotten lost, so I stop trying to understand.

“What have you been up to?”

He stops fumbling in what looks to be the wine cabinet, and after a beat, looks at me and looks at me hard.

“What have I been up to? What have I—look around. I’ve got this. I’ve got—well, Parker and Hardison. That’s what I’ve been up to. I’m doin’ things like—like helpin’ people who’ve been conned out of their life savings or—or—“

“Throwing Damien Moreau in a non-extradition jail?” I offer. “Bet that one felt pretty good.”

“He knew I was alive.”

“I’m pretty sure you can’t die,” I say, and he manages to choose a wine and bring out glasses. “What, no beer?” I say, looking at the bottle of cabernet sauvignon. “This is beyond you. I mean, you’re cooking. You don’t have to play this game.”

He looks at the bottle, back up to me, then slips it back in the cabinet before pulling a pair of beers from the fridge.

“That’s the Eliot I know…” I say, drifting, as he pops the top off without an opener. “I mean, it’s nice. After ten years. I guess—I guess I got lucky, you know? I got lucky. That you were here. I mean, after Kiev—“

He clinks his bottle against mine and effectively cuts me off by turning back to the sauce he’s doing something magical with.

I have to try a different tactic. I have to try—something.

“Full disclosure, I ran to Minsk. After I got out of there, I worked in Africa for a while, then South America, and then Europe. I really got into the Paris market. Made a few friends, then came to the States.”

“Not really full disclosure,” he says, shaking out the potatoes, then working on the sauce. There’s egg yolks and a whisk involved, so I’m out. I have no idea.

“Hey. I’m trying. I’m really trying.” I adjust myself on my stool. I need to tell him. The message I’ve been sent with. Maybe. Not—not now. Later. I’ll ease him into it.

He finds a pair of plates and utensils, sets the forks and knives in front of me, and takes the plates, guarding them with his back.

“Seriously? Are you being that petty right now?”

“Presentation is half the battle,” he says, grabbing things from the oven, removing them of their contents, then dumping the empty pans and skillets in the sink. When he turns around, the plates he’s prepared look nothing like any of the food I’ve eaten as of late.

“See what I mean?” He says, dragging a barstool to the other side of the bar. “Chateaubriand steak served with béarnaise sauce and chateau potatoes.”

“Who are you?” I ask, grasping my beer bottle like a security blanket.

“Not who you remember, apparently,” he says, making an effort to clink his bottle against mine again.

By the time we talk again, I’m nearly half done with my meal.

“I’m assuming you like it.”

“I love it. Bit fancy for my taste, but damn. Wow. I’m—I’m impressed, but what exactly are you trying to prove here?”

He just stares at me over his second bottle. I have to tell him. I have to ease into it.

“Don’t know if he ever told you, but you remember that ‘idiot cousin’ you told me about?”

“Shawn?” Eliot offers, and I laugh. He knows exactly which idiot cousin I’m referring to. “Santa Barbara Shawn?”

“San Francisco Shawn,” I correct. “He moved a few years ago. He’s married now. He’s about to have a kid, I think.”

“How in the… what fresh hell did he get involved with now?”

“Actually, it was his brother-in-law. Eoin O’Hara? Helped him on something.”

“What was it?”

“Classified,” I say, finishing my meal just a little after he does.

He just chuckles.

“He wants you to know he’s fine, by the way, and ‘El, don’t be Mr. T from every appearance he’s ever made in popular media’.”

“Yeah, sounds like him. When did you see him?”

“About a year and a half ago. Worked my way across the States,” I say as he finishes putting the remnants of that delicious meal in the sink to do later. “Yeah, so about that.”

“About what?”

“My trek across the States. So. Full—full disclosure. I mean it. I kind of accidentally found myself in Oklahoma. Uh. Calumet.”

He visibly straightens. He looks like he’s ready to pick a fight with me, so I scramble. I’m too exhausted for that right now.

“You have to understand, I didn’t know. I never knew. You never told me. I knew you were from Oklahoma, but I had no idea, and I needed supplies for a case I was running, so I stopped at a hardware store, and—and—“

“You talked to him?”

When I finally look up to him, his arms locked across his chest, his semi-permanent scowl turned towards me, I notice something—his eyes watering.

“He told me you haven’t been back since you joined up,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You haven’t—you haven’t talked to him in… well, a long time.”

He doesn’t say a word, he just turns around and leans on the cabinets.

“Listen, I had no idea. You have to believe me. I went in and it was so damn messy, I couldn’t find anything…” I drift, and he kind of smiles. I just keep going. “A local called him Mr. Spencer and I… I just asked.”

“What’d he say?”

I try to soften the blow. He did tell me he had a son named Eliot. He wasn’t sure if he was alive anymore. “Like I said, he said he hadn’t heard from you. Found a six pack on his porch a few years ago, thought it might have been you, but had no number to call. We—we, uh, he took me down to—what was it…”

“Johnnie’s Grill?”

“Yeah, yeah. We sat and talked for a while,” I say, playing with my beer bottle. “I told him. About… about Bosnia. He asked me how we met, so I told him you were abroad, and you were behind enemy lines, and I was living there, and—and you were missing in action, but they got you back. And that’s how we met. I told him I’ve traveled a lot and we’ve crossed paths a few times since then, and told him the last time I saw you was 2006. He… he was really grateful to know. He was happy, you know.”

He nods, then turns his head to wipe his eyes.

“Eliot. He asked me… I’ve got a message for you,” I say, my voice cracking. “He said you can come home. He said it’s been—been long enough. I—uh, I told him I didn’t know when I would see you, but he didn’t care. ‘Seems like the best option at the time,’ he said. I’m sorry I upset you. I just—I made a promise. And I wanted to keep this one this time.”

“Thanks,” he says, his voice husky.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Just drop it,” he says, getting another beer from the fridge. We fall into silence again. I’m getting used to it at this point. But I’ve got to keep trying. I’ve got to. I have too many things to say to him now that he’s here, and I’m not going to miss out.

“Hardison was telling me some stories the other day—“

“No. Don’t listen to him. Just—nothing he says is true,” Eliot says, shaking his head.

“Mmm, he was telling me some stories. I didn’t know you were so stereotypically angry all the time.” I keep trying to get him to laugh, and I’ve at least gotten a smirk out of him. I’ll keep trying. “He did tell me how pissed you were after what he called the ‘Reunion Job’ because no one was checking to see if you were—“

He breaks. “They were all dancin’ at their fake prom, and I got jumped. Several times. By several different people.”

“Are you still a little bitter?”

“Nah, it happens a lot.”

“Definitely bitter.”

“I’m not bitter!” he snaps. I just smirk, go to the fridge, and grab my own beer, joining him on his side of the counter top. “Maybe I’m a little bitter.”

“That’s kind of your thing,” I say, leaning on the cabinets. “You ever get back to New Orleans like you said you would?”

He shakes his head. “Got too busy.”

“Me too,” I say. “We didn’t spend a lot of time there, did we?”

“Not in the city, that’s for sure,” he says, smirking.

“Yeah,” I say, suddenly disinterested in the beer. “New Orleans did have a certain… haze to it.”

“First time we actually worked together.”

“You know something?” I ask, raising my eyebrow at him. “You never gave me my cut.”

“What?” He chuckles. “Nah, I definitely paid you.”

“I distinctly do not remember you giving me my $37,500,” I say. He didn’t. I know he didn’t, but I never pushed the issue. The next time we saw each other was Brasov, anyway, and that didn’t really end well.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. Let’s go right now.”

I hear myself laugh. It’s the first time I’ve laughed in a long time, and I think he recognizes that: he starts to smile. “What, do you have a box upstairs or something?”

Suddenly stern, he says, “No. Yes. Maybe. I ain’t tellin’ you!”

“You weren’t gonna take me to it, were you?”

“Dammit, Cee.” We share a look. A long look. He hasn’t called me Cee in… years. Years.

“I thought that was reserved for your boy Hardison.”

“He ain’t my—“ he says, almost instinctively, but cuts himself off.

“He’s definitely your boy,” I say. Eliot doesn’t dispute it. “Anyway, it’s too far gone now. It’s been fourteen years. Besides, you saved my life. I think that was good enough.”

“I thought you used the favor I owed you from Bosnia.”

“True,” I say, taking a long drink of my beer. “Maybe I’ll keep that favor on lockdown.”

“Not sure I like you havin’ favors on lockdown over me.”

I take a step towards him. My heart jumps. I immediately hate myself for it, but it’s coming back, even after Kiev. Even after ten years. But I said too much in Kiev.

“By the time I use it, it’ll probably be ten years from now anyways,” I say, too much under my breath, but he hears me. “I’ll probably be dead by then.”

“Charlie,” he begins, amping up for a quarrel, but I shake my head.

“Don’t. Don’t do this right now. We were doing so well. And you know full well that’s bound to happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I’m alone. I’ve been alone for years. It’s only by luck that you were here, otherwise I would be a sad footnote in the unwritten books on hitter history.”

He starts to say something, but he locks his mouth down tight. He wants to say something, but I know what’s stopping him. The Dnieper River, Kiev. Whatever nice, whatever calming, whatever encouraging thing he has to say drowned in the water ten years ago.

“You still sing?” I ask, making an attempt to change the subject.

“A little,” he admits.

“Hardison told me, you know. The job, in Nashville? What was it, six, seven years ago now?”

“Oh? Hardison—Hardison told you what, exactly?’

Setting my beer down on the table, I cross my arms and squint at him. “You—you, by the way—grifted as an up and coming music star, played and sang in front of a crowd. You. Eliot Spencer. That doesn’t happen.”

“Believe it.”

“It actually happened?”

He suppresses a grin, finishing off his beer. “You still think about it, don’t you?”

“I think about a lot of things that happened in Bihać. That’s one of them.”

“I know. You were singing it.”

“The hell you talking about?”

He sets his empty beer bottle down. “When we were patchin’ you up. You were singing.”

“I must have been delusional then.”

“You don’t remember?”

I wrack my brain, but that night became a hazy replica of the actual event. Much like some of my other nights, I’ve lost most of it to time already. “No. I’ve got nothin’.”

“You know exactly which song it was,” he says. “I sang it to you in Bosnia.” He holds out his hand while I figure out what he’s doing.

“We danced to it in New Orleans,” I say, clasping my hand in his. “You found it on the radio.” The familiarity of his hand in mine isn’t as potent as the feeling of his fist against my body, but it’s something I could get used to again. We’ve spent more time fighting than time with our hands clasped. We’ve spent more time hating each other than—than—

He slides his hand around my hip: a respectable place, not too high, not too low. I look up at him, but he doesn’t look at me: he looks anywhere but at me, so I slide my hand up his arm and rest it on his shoulder. While it makes my shoulder burn, I commit to it anyway.

“We don’t have any music,” I whisper in his ear, but he gently shushes me, muttering something under his breath. I close my eyes, and I hear him sing in a hushed whisper, as not to be heard. He shifts his feet just slightly, pulling me along with him.

“Baby, I’ve been here before. I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor—you know, I used to live alone before I knew you. And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch, and love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah. Hallelujah…”

I fight the tears, but I lean my head on his plaid shirt, feeling the vibrations of his voice before hearing them. They’re not really tears; no, they’re more like sobs. I push them down, out of my throat, threatening to come out. I know what we could have been. I know what we could have done together had I just listened to him, or—or—kept my promise. Why didn’t I keep my promise?

“Well, there was a time when you let me know what’s really going on below, but now you never show that to me, do ya?” Instinctively, I pull back from my place on his chest and look up at him. He doesn’t notice at first, but I watch, I memorize his face: “But remember when I moved in you, and the Holy Dove was moving too, and every… breath we drew…”

He drifts off as he looks to me, his furrowed brow weakening. The only thing I can hear is my heart beating in my ears, and while Eliot has a visible internal battle, I hold my breath. I don’t have long, I can’t hold it forever, but he blinks, like he’s pulling himself from thought, shakes his head just barely, then unclasps my hand from his. Instead of drawing away from me, like I think he’s going to do, he slips his hand across my jaw, to my cheek, to my neck. I shift closer, instinctively, and his lips meet mine with a gasp. I don’t push him; I don’t move too fast. He’s light, and it’s not us. It’s the opposite of us.

When he opens his lips against mine, I finally move my hands to around his shoulders, pulling him closer as I raise up on my toes, but when he finally pulls away I can’t help but draw a quick breath.

“I never wanted to say goodbye either,” he whispers.

“You still hate me for Kiev.”

“I’m not ready to forgive you for Kiev,” he says, still holding my face in his hands, “But I ain’t thinkin’ about that right now.” With his thumbs, he wipes away the tears that had started to slip down my face. I lean back up, I lean into him, and he kisses me again, this time, forcing my mouth open easily. He’s gentle, he’s kind; I slip my fingers into his short hair, entwining them, keeping him close to me.

With a breath, he rests his forehead against mine. I try not to breathe. If I hold my breath, maybe the moment won’t go away.

I don’t want the moment to go away.


	5. I know you are but what am I?

“—Parker, I swear, it wasn’t my fault—“

We immediately break, I drop my hands to the cabinet, he steps away towards the fridge, his back to Hardison as he barges in. He and I make brief eye contact and his eyes grow wide.

“Oh. Oh. Oh, sorry—sorry—shit, sorry—“

“Somebody picked my pocket!” Parker roars. “Parker smash!”

“No, no, no, no. No. Parker not smash. Parker. Parker—Parker.”

Hardison restrains Parker from behind, whispering in her ear to calm her down, and ultimately turns her around. Eliot glances at Hardison, and while he does, I reach up to him one last time and kiss him. I don’t see his face when I leave. I’m not sure I want to see his reaction.

“Parker, what happened?” I say, getting her a glass of water. Once she drinks most of it, she launches into the explanation.

“Hardison was getting us food truck food and this woman in a wheelchair asked me for the time, and I checked my phone and told her, and that was it! But she—she got my wallet! She got my lock pick set! She got my phone! She took everything!”

“How?!” I ask, looking to Hardison. He shrugs, still holding back Parker from turning into the Incredible Hulk.

“I can’t be sure, but I think I saw her,” he says. “I… I think I know.”

“You think you know who she was?” Parker says, her voice cracking.

“She looked like someone I used to know,” he says. “I only got a quick glance.”

He looks very uncomfortable. He does, but I decide we can come back to it. “Did she check all her pockets?”

Parker wiggles her way out then starts fumbling around with all her pockets, until her back pocket—a pocket in question, it seems—elicits a slim card. It almost looks holographic. I can’t help but smirk.

“What’d she look like?” I ask. “Did you get a good look at her?”

Parker looks confused. “No. No, I didn’t. It was like she was there and then she was gone. Glasses, maybe?”

I reach for the card, flip it in my hands. On the back, on the bottom left hand corner, is the silhouette of a raven, pecking at a keyboard. Flinging it back to Hardison, I put a hand on Parker’s shoulder.

“You’re gonna get your stuff back. Hardison, get your computer ready or whatever you do. We’re gonna have company.”

“Company? Company? What kind of company?”

“Eliot, I’m gonna want you as the welcoming committee,” I say, grabbing his arm. Him and I head into the bar, and immediately he shrugs off my grip.

“The hell is goin’ on?” He asks, he grumbles, as I slide into a bar stool.

“You know that hacker? I called her Ulalume, she’s got a bunch of different names. The thing is, she got to Parker first. How? I don’t know. I honestly don’t know how she does some of this shit, but I don’t ask. Okay? Don’t make any sudden movements. She’s dangerous.”

He leans against the bar, making sure he’s got a perfect line of sight to the door.

“So about tonight…”

He doesn’t look at me, shaking his head. “Not yet.”

Without another moment to lose, the door opens. The hacker’s admittedly taller than me, and for once, she’s decided to arrive without a wig on. We’re a big catch, it seems, and she wants to make an impression.

“Hey, Charlie,” she says, not making eye contact immediately. Instead, she looks about the room, ceiling to floor, until she makes it back to us. “Surveillance?”

“No. You’re good to go.”

She nods at Eliot. “Who’s the spare?”

“Eliot Spencer,” he says, crossing his arms. She starts to smirk, looking from me to him and back again. I just glare at her, and she seems to get the picture.

“I see. Now it’s all coming together. Parker’s not too happy, is she?”

“Nope. No, she’s not,” I say, guiding her to the back room. She must have been fitted for a different prosthetic, because it’s less noticeable now than when I met her back in 2011.

“You know, I was hoping for a little more time to prepare for this,” she says under her breath, directed towards me.

“Prepare for what?” I ask. She isn’t making sense, but I push through to the back room anyway.

“Parker, Hardison,” I begin. “I’d like you to meet… wait, which alias are you using now?” I stage whisper to her.

“It’s not really going to matter anyways,” she whispers to me.

“Here’s our backup hacker,” I add unceremoniously.

“She stole my stuff!” Parker says, launching at her. Hardison tries to hold her back, but Eliot steps around me and helps the hacker hold back his thief girlfriend.

“Sorry about that,” The hacker says, pulling the things she had lifted out of her pocket and tossing it at Parker. “It was the fastest way to prove my credentials.” She catches it and harrumphs, flopping down on the couch. That’s when Hardison and our hacker finally make eye contact.

“Alec,” she says, her voice steady. Too steady. I’ve seen showdowns like this before.

He crosses his arms tightly across his chest. “Virginia.”

Eliot and I share a quick look.

“You two know each other?” Eliot says, pointing back and forth.

“You could say that,” Hardison says.

“We dated. For three years. High school,” Virginia—Virginia? That’s really her name?—says.

I’ve known her for almost five years. She’s never told me her name. It was always Rowena. Or Victorine. Or Ada. God, her name is Virginia? Wait, they—

“You dated. In high school,” Eliot mutters.

Hardison is immediately defensive. “Why is that so weird for you to know, E? Why? You don’t think I could date a nice girl like her in high school? Huh?”

Eliot makes cutting of motions with his hand across his neck to Hardison. Once he sees, he peers at me with wide eyes. I look around him to Parker, who doesn’t look too happy. She’s brooding. She’s—peering at Virginia, hard. I didn’t know she had a jealous gene.

The glass in her hand shatters.

“Hey, Parker,” Eliot says, reaching towards her. He brushes the glass into his hand, tosses it into the trash can, then pulls her to her feet. “Let’s go to the bar.”

“Let’s go to the bar,” she mocks, brushing past Hardison and Virginia on her way out of the back room. As she stomps, Eliot stops and whispers to me—“Stay here and make sure they don’t kill each other.”

“That’s the plan.”

With Parker and Eliot out of the room, Virginia and Hardison stare down each other. It’s different than I expect. They’re quiet. They’re silent.

“I wish you would’a told me you were coming,” he begins.

“I’m on a tight schedule,” she says. “I would have warned you, but things moved quickly.”

“Moved quickly? Moved—moved quickly? I haven’t heard from you since we graduated.”

She doesn’t even react. Her face is cold. This is so different than Eliot and I. Ours is dark anger and forgotten punches. This is a chess game. This is zeros and ones, repeating.

“You know I needed to be alone after what happened. I tried. We tried. If you wanted me to take it back, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t change anything. I did what I had to do.”

“I know you did. And I understand. I get that,” Hardison says. “I just don’t know why you had to fall off the face of the planet like that.”

“I didn’t though,” she says, sitting down at one of the chairs. She starts typing on the keyboard Hardison left there. “Remember two years ago, when you thought you had drunk all the orange soda in your van? I think you were in Portland. You found that full, unopened six pack just waiting for you?”

His eyes widen. “Wait, what? Nah. Nah, there’s no way.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, looking at the screen. It’s just lines of code. “Besides, you didn’t come looking for me. You could have, you know.”

“You didn’t ask,” he says, reading lines of code faster than I could read English.

“That’s fair.”

Hardison glances at me, he takes a beat. A moment, and he’s back. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

“Hey, Hardison?” I say, gesturing towards the door into the bar. “Um. You should…”

He scrambles to the door without another word, so I go and sit at the table with Virginia.

“So. Virginia.”

“Vi,” she corrects, not even looking at me. Just the screen. “If my cover’s blown, at least call me Vi.”

“You could have told me about your history with Hardison.”

“Irrelevant,” she says. “You didn’t know him.”

I shrug. “Alright. Noted. I didn’t know you pickpocketed too, though. That’s a new one.”

“I ain’t a one horse pony,” she mutters. I try to figure out exactly what she says, but I don’t have enough time because Eliot, Hardison, and Parker come back into the room. Parker doesn’t look happy, but it’s better than before. Hardison looks a little timid. I take it.

“You’re trying to break out a guy from Supermax,” she says, bringing up blueprints on the screen. How the hell—“Sing Sing is pretty unhackable. You’re looking at heat sensors, motion sensors, infared, lockdown doors… it’s not going to happen.”

“That’s encouraging,” I say, looking at the blueprint she’s got on the screen. “Any other options?”

“This is why you need me,” she says. “Nothing against you, Alec. You just don’t have the experience I do.”

“Excuse me? Vi, c’mon—“

“Did you program the New York State Department of Corrections and Community Supervision security system?”

The room goes silent. Well, that’s more than convenient. That’s pretty damn helpful.

“So, we can get in?”

She laughs. “Oh, no. We can’t get in. Not a chance. See, they’re a little snoopy with who the let in and out of their prisons, you know? But you know what I can do?”

Hardison stares at the televisions, and soon, his lips curl into a smile. “Nice. Nice!” Reaching over to Vi, they fist bump without looking.

“Wanna tell us what we’re seein’?” Eliot says, gesturing at the confusion on the screen.

“Where do you want to transfer him? What about Newark? We take him to Newark, you’re gonna have to go through New York City, and then we’re home free.”

“What are we gonna need?” Hardison asks. “Fake IDs, a van? What’s the plan?”

“No, I see it,” Parker murmurs, pointing at the screen. “I can get one of the vans. Eliot can ride with me. We’ll need fake IDs to get the prisoner transfer. Vi and Hardison, you guys man the systems. Vi on New York, Hardison on New Jersey. Initiate the transfer, take all the confirmation calls. We determine how long it would take to get the transfer to complete, then fake the paperwork for his entry into the Jersey prison. Charlie, when we get into New York, you take Woodford, and we ditch the van.”

“It’s a great plan,” Eliot says. “One problem. We can’t be seen at all in this.”

Parker groans theatrically.

“Settle down,” Eliot says, giving me the floor.

“That’s why we need another person,” I say. “You put me and the Virtuoso in the van, Eliot and you are at the drop point. It’s not what you want, I know, but that’s what we gotta do. If anyone sees you at all, it’s over.”

“You’re trying to get the Virtuoso?” Vi asks, already typing. “I’ll give her a call.”

Before we can all say anything about it, she’s pulling up a video chat, and it’s ringing to what looks like a Paris number. I should have known she would be in Paris. Especially after her botched Saint-Tropez job.

A tired looking brunette answers, a paintbrush in her mouth.

_“Bonsoir, Victorine. Qui sont vos amis et que voulez-vous? Cinq secondes.”_

“She’s French?” I hear Parker murmur. It seems her anger is finally melting away.

“Job. New York City. Breaking a guy out of Sing Sing. You in or out?”

She doesn’t even look at the screen. She keeps painting. “Qui?”

“Alan Woodfor—“

 _“No. Nope, no. Not happening.”_ Parker, Hardison, and Eliot perk up when they hear her slip from the perfect French accent into some sort of Brooklyn drawl. _“Not Woodford. I’ve had dealings with him in the past. And that little traipse in NYC with the Pink Panthers? Nope. I don’t want anything to do with him. Not at all. Not playing.”_

Vi is striking out. I step into frame. “Hey, Bea.”

“Bea…”Parker murmurs, all anger melting away.

She finally sets down her paintbrush. _“Charlie.”_

“I’m calling in that favor.”

She checks her watch, sets down her paintbrush, and runs her hand through her hair. _“Where are you? Boston?”_

“I’ll text you the address.”

A faint electronic glow shows up on her face, and I hear typing. _“I can be to Boston by 12:30 p.m.”_

And just like that, the screen goes dark.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a team,” Parker says enthusiastically.

We’re one step closer to getting Woodford out, yeah, but we’re also another step closer to what I assume is the expected outcome.

I can’t let them know.

Because I know who Woodford leads to.

Damien Moreau.


	6. I’m sorry if I smothered you

I’m in Kiev. I’m in snow, dragging myself through. I can’t breathe. Not out of my left side. The shot went through too close, I think. I don’t know if I can survive this one. Too close. Too close to the heart.

The bomb is still burning the building next to the river. I hear yelling, but they’re not coming in my direction.

Head north. I have to—I have to head north. That’s the only way. I’ve got to get away from him.

I can’t believe I said what I said. I shouldn’t have. I should have kept it inside. But I almost killed him.

Eliot. He had to survive. I wouldn’t let myself live if I knew he didn’t.

I should have died. I should have taken it. I shouldn’t have tried to save us both.

Every step I take is me, dragging through snow. I’m in snow. I’m in Kiev. I can’t breathe.

White snow, red blood, with each step, I’m fading.

It drips, down my fingertips, down, marking red drops in white snow.

In front of me, there’s a man.

It’s Damien Moreau. He’s the one with the sniper rifle. He doesn’t usually handle that kind of machinery. He doesn’t get his hands dirty.

He’s holding it to the head of someone on his knees. I can tell from behind it’s Eliot. How did he find El? He should have gone in the other direction, I—I can’t stop this. I’m too weak to stop this.

This isn’t what happened. This isn’t what happened, this isn’t—bang.

I’m chained to a wall. This one is real. I know this is real.

He fucking left me here. He’s going to leave me to die, but I can’t. I can’t let that happen. Not now.

This is before Kiev. This is Nigeria. Month—month three. I can’t survive much longer. Not with the abuse. Not with the drugs. They’ve beat me. They’ve—they’ve done worse. I can handle the beatings. It’s everything else.

It’s Nigeria. It’s only Nigeria, you can survive this. You… you—

The guard returns, wielding his machete, placing it against my neck. I feel the blade. He’s sharpened it. He doesn’t say anything, he just starts slipping his hand down my pants, and I’m helpless to fight it. I can’t fight it. I—I can’t. I try to kick up, but they’ve chained my feet down. I try to push him away, and nothing. Eleven years ago is suddenly right now.

Remember… remember Satu Mare. Remember Eliot. Just, remember. Don’t let them win. Don’t let Moreau win. This is before. This is before Kiev. Eliot’s still alive. Eliot’s still okay.

The nightmare shifts. I shift from a memory to a dream, something I’ve seen before, as the guard makes me move, makes me painfully shift to get away from him.

No, this nightmare changes, and the guard suddenly stops, blood bubbling from his mouth. He drops, his knife drops, and Eliot stands in front of me. He snatches the key, but I can’t even warn him, I can’t say the other guard’s coming, I can’t warn him about the machete, or the gun. I can’t, my mouth’s too dry, my throat, I’m bleeding in snow, I’m bleeding in sand. The guard raises his machete, no, it’s a gun, he raises his gun, and shoots Eliot through the back of his head. He drops. His eyes—his blue eyes, the nineteen-year-old’s eyes, they’re blank. I can’t. I can’t, no. No. His blood is on me, in my mouth, on me, it’s everywhere. His blood. He’s dead.

The guard isn’t the guard. It’s Damien Moreau.

I’m screaming before I know it. I’m screaming, I can’t stop screaming, my hands are covered in blood, covered in scars—covered, blood, covered in—

“Cee! Cee—“

Moreau runs me through. The machete. We’re in snow. I feel the sharp sting of metal slip through me, open me up, and tear me apart. Covered in blood, covered in scars, covered in flame. Covered in flame, I’m in Zagreb and it’s burning.

I shake, I can’t stop shaking. I can’t. When he pulls out the blade, I try to hold myself together, but the blood gushes. Red on white, red on white. Then blackness.

I’m screaming. I’m screaming until I’m hoarse.

“Cee. Cee, you’re alright. You’re alright,” I hear Eliot’s voice. I hear him before I feel him. “You’re—you’re hyperventilating. You need to breathe.”

He takes my hands. He takes my hands, threatening to fight and punch and beat and he holds them just tight enough to stop me. I flail. I can’t stop.

I’m not there. I’m nowhere. I’m waking up. I have to wake up. Wake up—

Hardison—“What the hell? Is she okay?”

Then Eliot—“Nightmare. I’ve got this.”

I blink, I try to look at my hands, but they’re red with blood. Arterial blood, bright, bright red. I can’t see anything else. Everything’s red. Everything’s—dying—

I scramble. I scramble in my sheets. I’m awake, I have to be awake, but all I see is blood. I hear the bombs again. The fire shoots up the back of my eyelids.

“Cee, you gotta wake up, c’mon. Cee. Cee!”

It hits me in my chest, and I can’t breathe. I’m on the floor, or something, I just can’t—I can’t—

“Dammit, Cee!”

He shakes me, I’m standing, he’s pulled me up. I’m shaking. I’m on my feet. Fire, and explosions. I can’t breathe.

“Eliot. Eliot, I—This is why—you were dead, and I was dying, and—and—“

He shakes me once more. “C’mon. Wake up. Cee.”

“It’s the—the bombs, and the-the—“

Eliot takes my face in his hands. I try to touch his arms, but my hands shake too much. But I focus on him, and I finally completely wake up. We’re in Boston.

“You alright?”

I just shake my head. “How… how do you do this? I can’t. I can’t anymore.”

He looks away from me, squinting at nothing, like he’s thinking about the best way to answer it. “We’ve been helpin’ people for eight years, that’s what. The good starts cancelin’ out the bad. Doesn’t change it, but helps a little.”

“I don’t want this anymore. I don’t.”

“Get through this job, then we’ll talk,” he says, slipping his hands away from me. I watch them drop. I watch his fists clench, then release.

“We’ve been through so much shit,” I mutter. “Too much shit. How the hell are we supposed to handle this?”

He doesn’t answer. He can’t answer. He can’t even look at me.

I step closer to him and pull him into a hug. I rest my head on his chest, I can hear his heart beat; it rushes a bit before he wraps his arms around me. It’s like he doesn’t know how to hug, but someone’s teaching him how.

When at first it starts like he’s confused, after a moment, after a beat too long, one of his hands slip up to cradle my head against his chest. I very nearly melt into him. It’s so easy. It’s like Bosnia all over again. He even smells the same.

When he pulls away, I’m not sure I want to let go, and he recognizes that. Without even asking, he crawls into the bed, sitting against the headboard. Once I lay down, he pulls me closer to him, until I curl up beside him under his arm. I still feel my body shaking. I can’t make it stop. Eliot pulls me closer, and brushes my hair back from my face as he hums.

He gets them too, I know, but he hides it so much better. I don’t know if they’re similar. I just know my nightmares get violent.

“Moreau?” is all he asks. I nod. “Me too,” he says.

He tucks my hair back behind my ear, his hand lingering on my chin as he does.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispers, kissing me on the forehead.

“I can’t. I can’t now. Just… just sit with me?”

He nods once.

“Can you…?”

Smirking, he doesn’t right away. “Cee, I—”

“You keep calling me that. Cee.”

“Go ahead and try to be Charlie,” he says, pulling me closer, pulling my sheets up. “You’ll always be Cee.”

I try to shut my eyes, but I see only red until he’s humming, then singing, ever so lightly.

“Well, I’ve heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the Lord, but you don’t really care for music, do you? Well, it goes like this: the fourth, the fifth; the minor fall and the major lift. The baffled king composing hallelujah. Hallelujah…”

When I wake up, it’s not sharp. It’s slow and not full of nightmares.

I’m curled up on my side like usual, but this time, there’s an arm around me, pulling me close. Eliot’s appropriated both pillows, but I use his chest as my pillow. He’s still completely out, his other hand sliding under one of the pillows. I know why: he’s so used to sleeping with a nine millimeter under his head, he still mimics the movement.

Although I don’t want to leave, I hear typing from downstairs, so I gently slide from his grip. When I make it down the stairs, Vi is there, typing on the keyboard Hardison left there. Files flash and disappear on the screen faster than I can read them.

“What is with you hitters and lurking?” She says, taking a long drink from a mug next to her. “Is there some sort of course you take at hitter school or something?”

I sit in the chair next to hers. “Nah. You’re born with the gene. That’s how we’re chosen from such a young age. It’s nature, not nurture.”

Vi just chuckles.

“Oh, you liked that one?”

“I did, I did.”

“What’re you working on?”

“Trying to catch up.”

I lean onto the table, but she doesn’t look away from the panel of televisions. “Catch up what?”

“The last eight years. I want to know everything Alec’s been doing. Wow, that sounded creepier than intended,” she deadpans. “No, I mean it in the least creepy way. It’s just…”

For the first time since we met, she drifts, unsure of what to say. She’s always sure of herself. Instead of pushing her, though, I stay silent, letting her figure it out on her own.

“I’ve been trying to find Hardison,” she explains. “Past couple of years. I had heard through the grapevine what he’d been doing, and… well…”

“You wanted to do it too?” I ask, fiddling with the scabs on my knuckles.

“Yeah,” she says, finally quitting her typing and turning to me. “Yeah. I wanted to flip. I thought I did for the longest time. I’ve just had a hard time… actually doing it.”

“Why’s that?”

She groans. “The Dark Side is just so… fun.”

I shrug. “Depends on what Dark Side you’re talking about. I get kicked and punched every day of my life. I’d do that if I switched, too, but at least it would be ‘for a good cause’.”

She goes back to typing, but it’s not files anymore. It’s security feeds, it’s information, it’s codes, it’s everything we need to get into Sing Sing.

“You left yourself a back door, didn’t you?” I ask, trying to keep up.

“Hitter knows her hacking,” Vi says under her breath.

“Hey, remember that con we ran the last time we were in New York together?”

Vi just lets out a low chuckle. “You owe me five dollars.”

“The payout was $5 million, and you want me to pay up on my debt?”

“We made a bet, Novak, cowboy up.”

“I’ll get it to you before the end of the job, how’s that?”

“Croatian doesn’t have money, does she?”

I settle back into my chair. “You’re a dick. I’ll have it for you.”

“So that’s Eliot Spencer, eh?”

“Don’t do this.”

“Cuter in real life.”

“He’ll kick your ass.”

“You would too, but no one would hit a handicapped person.”

“Hitters do have standards.”

“That’s why I would win in a fight.”

“Not if you hit me first.”

“That’s where the rules get thrown out?”

“Damn straight.”

“What if I knock you out in one shot?”

“Not possible.”

“Worth a shot.”

“Not even close. So you and Hardison dated in high school?”

“I’ll take ‘non sequitur’ for 1000, Trebek. Oh, good, it’s the daily double.”

I glare at her, and she groans theatrically, pausing her incessant typing.

“We dated. In high school. Three years. I taught him how to hack.”

“What about the Pentagon?”

“He takes credit for it, but that was definitely mostly me.”

I drop my voice low. “Are you the reason the NSA hasn’t come after these guys yet?”

She doesn’t look at me. “I can neither confirm nor deny I had any involvement with the National Security Agency.”

I smirk. “So what happened between you two?”

Her typical bravado drops a few decibels. “Car accident.”

“Oh. Oh—“

“Yeah. He was fine, I lost my leg, I can’t keep it together. We break up, and I slip off the grid, never to be seen again. I ain’t gonna faunch about it. Please just drop it.”

“I wish you had told me so I could have warned you.”

She shrugs. “It had to happen sooner or later. I’m glad you were here to facilitate.”

“Anything for you, Vi.”

“Well. Rome wasn’t burnt in a day. I’ve gotta get our aliases up if we’re gonna make the riffle.”

I don’t even try to understand her half the time. I’m not always positive it’s right, but since English isn’t my first language, I don’t question it. Instead, I find their coffeemaker in the midst of all the chaos and start it up with half the can of coffee grounds in the percolator. It’s going to be a hell of a day. Might as well prepare for it.

I stare at the coffee maker, but it doesn’t seem to make it brew faster.

As I stand, though, I feel a presence growing somewhere over my right shoulder. I’m pretty confident about it, so I say something.

“Hey, Parker.”

“Hey, Charlie.” She lifts herself up onto the countertop, already with her hand in the Frosted Flakes. “You okay?”

I give her the once over, unsure of how to proceed, but she actually seems genuine.

“Umm, I’m not sure—“

“The nightmares. You were screaming this morning.”

“I’m… I’m fine. I really am. Just—they’re just dreams.”

“Nightmares,” Parker corrects. “Old jobs?”

“Yeah, Parker. Old jobs,” I say, holding a hand to my head. It’s already throbbing.

“Sometimes, Eliot gets those,” she says, dropping her voice low. “They were really bad at the beginning, but they’re starting to trail off. I think he’s losing those memories in favor of some good ones. You know, recently, he went a whole day without threatening some sort of physical harm to Hardison. So just remember that.”

“Remember that for what?”

“When you go straight,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Oh. You mean permanently?”

“Of course. Isn’t that what you’re planning to do?”

“I—I don’t know yet,” I say, finding a coffee mug. It’s not until I try to pull out the full carafe that I realize my hands are still shaking. I try to pull them away, but I know Parker’s already seen it. Leaning over, she dusts off her hands and fills my cup for me.

“When Nate and Lara left, I wasn’t sure I was ready to take over. Five years before, I was just a kid stealing anything I could get my hands on. I would steal just to steal. With them, with Eliot and Hardison, I have a purpose. And I still get to steal stuff. So what I’m trying to say is… do you have a purpose, Charlie? Or are you hitting just to hit?”

I sip on my coffee, not really sure of how to answer that question.

* * *

We wait at the airport, Vi and I, for Bea to make her appearance off the Air France flight that landed about twenty minutes ago. Parker wanted to come too, but I made her stay behind, for fear of blowing our operation.

Regardless, Hardison required us to have comms before we left. Right now, I think he’s playing Call of Duty with Eliot yelling out directions in the background.

“Can you calm it down?” I mutter, almost hearing feedback.

 _“Sorry, Charlie,”_ Hardison calls out.

“It’s been a couple of years since we all rounded up, you know that, right?” Vi says, leaning on her cane. She said it was for the parking pass. I think it’s the pain she gets when the weather changes.

“And it’s going to be so outta sight,” Vi says.

“Bees’ knees?” I offer.

“Bees’ knees,” Vi concurs as Bea strides out of the terminal. She’s only got one moderately sized duffel, so I know she’s in the right headspace. She’s only got a little bit of a limp from Saint-Tropez.

“Bonjour!” She calls out. She kisses me twice, once on each cheek, then does the same to Vi.

“You really took the whole French thing to a new level,” I say, grabbing her duffel and tossing it over my shoulder.

“I’ve been in hiding,” she explains as we start towards the doors. “Assimilation. You know anything about that, Charlie?”

“I don’t really assimilate. I don’t really hide, either,” I say, pushing out in to the parking lot. Bea holds the door open for Vi and we’re off again.

“So, when’s the meet?”

“Tomorrow,” Vi says. “Give you time to meet the rest of the team, get settled—“

“Call him up,” Bea orders. “Call him up and move up the timeline. We can go right now.”

“The hell is wrong with you, you looper?!” Vi says as we help her into the van. “No way. We can’t possibly do it now.”

“Hardison, you hear this?”

_“Loud and clear. What’s your plan?”_

“What do you think?” I ask. “Gives us an extra day to plan. We can get to NYC early. Might help us to stake out the place better.”

“Parker’s giving the thumbs up, which is weird because she does, indeed, have a comm.”

I quickly dial Swithey’s number. When he answers, he sounds flustered.

“Move up the meeting. Let’s do it right now. You in?

_“Right—right now?”_

“Yeah. Team’s assembled. Let’s do this.”

_“Alright. Alright—one thirty. Be here. Be ready to show us what you can do.”_

I check my watch.

“Done.”

Hanging up, Vi shakes her head. “If you fall and break your legs, don’t come running to me.”

“Your mixed idioms are out of control. You really need to get help.”

“We’ll jump that shark when we come to it.”

* * *

We park in front of the abandoned theatre. Not my favorite place to be in Boston right now, but I don’t really have a choice.

“You in position?” I mutter into the comms after handing Bea one.

 _“Ready,”_ Hardison says. _“Don’t do anything stupid.”_

“Too late,” Bea says, looking around before sliding past the barricades on the door.

“We’re big fans of punctuality!” Foley calls out before we can get to the main section of seats. I know the device I dropped in here last time still has to be here. And it’s still on battery life.

“We aim to please. Here’s my team. You ready to strike up a deal?” I say, crossing my arms. He eyes them. I know he can see the burns still on my skin.

Swithey gives us all nasty grins. “All girl team? What is this, the Junior Varsity?”

“Do we look like Junior Varsity to you?” Vi says. Swithey gives her a look to kill.

“Really? Really.”

“Hacker. Ulalume. Knows the security system.”

“Built the security system,” she says. “Consider my skills proven.”

Foley circles Bea. “And you’ve brought in Roxie Kander. Good to see you again, dollface.”

“I’m not your dollface,” she says, affecting an Irish accent. I knew she had dealings with them before. I guess I never asked to what extent.

“Oh, Roxie. I know you’re not Irish. Cut the bullshit.”

She shrugs, then her posture immediately changes from indifferent to straight, like she’s lost another persona.

“I know her credentials,” Foley says. “Now we’ve got to know yours.”

“Oh. Was the time I escaped from you not good enough? Or do you need something else?”

 _“Charlie. Don’t get cocky,”_ Eliot says.

“C’mon, C4. Heard you cut wetwork out from your daily special. It’s a shame, really.”

I can just feel my blood boiling. Parker says my name, and I ignore her. They’re all trying to stop me from doing anything stupid.

Maybe, just maybe, the bomb I placed at the back of the church would stop this shit all together.

“Oh, Swithey. Foley. You underestimate me literally every time we see each other.”

Swithey’s already figured it out.

“You’ve already got a bomb in here, don’t you?”

I don’t speak. I just check my watch. A tap on the side, and then time’s a ticking.

 _“Charlie, you’re doing something stupid. You’re doing something incredibly stupid, this is not a good idea, girl—“_ Hardison tries.

“Thirty seconds,” I say, slipping my hands in my pockets.

“Thirty seconds?” Foley says, his Irish brogue slipping into higher octaves. “We watched you this entire time! Where the hell would you have put it?”

“Twenty-four seconds.”

Foley starts to pull Swithey towards the door, but Swithey’s got other ideas. He stands in front of me, watching, waiting for the flinch. Sucks for him. I don’t flinch. Elle and Vi don’t flinch either. It’s comforting.

“She’s bluffing.”

“Fifteen seconds, m’boyo,” I say. The prospect doesn’t even scare me anymore. I’ll go down in a hail of bullets or a bomb. This Swithey doesn’t scare me. Either we blow up and die, or they die, or no one dies, but I’ll do what I can to get out of this job. I’ll do whatever I can.

It’s only a little bit of explosives. It probably won’t even blow the roof off the place.

“Ten seconds,” I say. “You’re both looking a little pale.”

Swithey circles me, gets to the other side of me, away from the stage. Oh, well. I’ll take whatever I can get.

“She’s bluffing,” Swithey says.

“Oh, honey, she ain’t bluffing,” Vi manages to say just as part of the stage explodes.

Like I expected, it doesn’t blow the roof off, but it does create a nice enough plume of fire and flame. Foley screams. Swithey lets out a string of curses. I just laugh over the cries on the comms.

“I’ll let you know when we have Woodford,” I say, still a little disappointed both were out of range. They’re a little dirty from hitting the deck, and both look desperately at the burning stage.

There’s crackling on the comms, but I can’t really make out what they’re saying. Most of it is Eliot half cursing.

“Jesus Christ, Charlie. You could have warned us,” Bea keeps saying. “You know, about the bomb you were going to set off?”

“You’re not dead,” I snark. “You weren’t dead after the bomb I set off in Nice, remember? And you trusted me then.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever trusted you,” Vi says under her breath.

“What the hell was that?” Eliot’s ranting. “You set a bomb in there? When the hell did you have time to do that?”

“The last time I was here,” I say conversationally, heading towards the van.

“You can’t do that shit here! You—you—“

I pull out my comm. I don’t want to hear him rant about what I can’t or can do. This is my mess to clean up, and I’m not going to let them go down.

The only one going down because of this is me.


	7. But still my heart is heavy with the hate of some other man’s beliefs

I don’t hear the end of it. We prep for the short flight to New York tomorrow morning. Bea and Vi—who aren’t nearly as angry as Eliot—head to their hotels. When we get back to the bar, I settle in for the long haul.

“Girl, you might wanna clear out. You don’t wanna go back there,” Hardison begins.

Parker gets wide eyes. “You really pissed off Eliot.”

I scoff. “How?! Why?”

She just makes an awkward explosion sound with her mouth.

“Where the hell are you going?” I ask, blocking their way out.

“We are not gonna be here for decimation that’s about to occur,” Hardison says. “Kindly step aside, we don’t wanna be collateral damage. Just don’t hurt my tvs, alright? Or my computers. Nothin’—nothin’ electronic, alright?”

By now, I’m fuming. I’m pissed that he’s pissed. I start upstairs to their offices and he’s already waiting, arms crossed, jaw set.

“What the hell were you thinkin’?”

It’s not a question. I pull out my ruined earbud and set it on the table. “They wanted a demonstration. I gave them a demonstration.”

“By blowin’ up their HQ? You probably just landed on the PD’s radar! A bomb, Charlie! You can’t do that! Not here. Not now.”

“Are you even following what I’m telling you?” I say, circling him. I know he’s pissed by the way his jaw sets, and I take a step back, balancing myself on the balls of my feet even though my thigh shakes a little from the exertion. “I had to. To sell the con. To get the job.”

“What if there were innocent people? Hmm? What happened if you had killed them?”

“There weren’t!” I cry. “We cleared the area, and I didn’t use enough C4 to make a major explosion. Besides, what happened if I killed them? Foley and Swithey? I wouldn’t have to do this job!”

“What is it about this job that you’re not tellin’ us?”

“You know everything I know,” I snap. But he pauses, and he can read it in my face. He’s the one person I could never hide from.

“You’re gonna have to tell me sooner or later.”

“I know what I’m doing! Why the hell can’t you trust me?”

“How the hell am I supposed to react? I can distinctly tell you the time I stopped trusting you!”

“You’re still not happy about what happened in Kiev,” I finally say. He’s settling into his feet. He’s going to fight me. He’s going to throw a punch.

“Not happy? Not… not happy? How do you think I’m supposed to feel?”

“It was the best move. It was the only way to keep you alive,” I try, but he’s not having it. He’s not having it at all.

“Novak, I can’t trust you. I used to, but not anymore.”

“It’s not even about trust! You didn’t have control of what happened, and that drives you crazy. It still drives you crazy, because you can’t get over the fact that I could handle things just fine without you telling me what to do.”

“That’s not what I meant, Jesus Christ! You’ve gotten almost as good as Lara when it comes to lying through your teeth to a mark!”

We start circling each other. I know how things like this end. Someone’s usually bleeding. Both of us are usually bleeding, and no one’s a clear winner. But I’m starting to wonder if this isn’t better this way. We were always better when we were fighting.

“Just hit me like I know you want to,” I say, raising my hands.

“I don’t hit girls unless they hit me first.”

He lets me get in a solid right hook to his chin—a definitive hit— before he tosses a punch. I duck, deflect, try to swipe his feet. The next few attempts from both are a flurry of punches, but I soon get out of his arm’s length, tossing a bar stool in front of his feet.

I switch tactics when he does. He flattens his hand and chops at me, and I land a hit somewhere in his solar plexus. The air almost gets knocked out of him. Almost. While I wait to see his next hit, I’m nearly thrown to the floor by his nasty right hook.

“Damn,” I curse, staggering. “Forgot how solid that hit was.”

“Wanna see it again?” He says, dragging me up by my collar. I’m still not healed, but he doesn’t care. He’ll use it to his advantage.

I pull out of his grip, duck and roll, and he strides after me. I make it to the spiral staircase, using the momentum to slam my feet into his chest. He ends up on the ground, and I end up on the second floor.

He follows, relentlessly. I almost land another punch, but he catches it, spinning me. He slams me hard against the wall, face first, curling his fingers around my wrists. I stop moving, just for a second, and when he does, he pins me with his knee.

“I can’t believe I just set Kiev aside and helped you. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“That couldn’t be farther from the truth,” I say, muffled by the drywall.

“I don’t know what the truth is with you anymore.”

“Isn’t that what made this fun in the first place?”

I whirl on him so he has to let go of my wrists if he doesn’t want his hands broken, but once I do, once I face him, he lands a hand on my shoulder where the gunshot wound hasn’t completely healed and presses his palm, hard, into me. My right hand may be free, but he slams my left wrist against the wall again. I cringe but don’t make a sound. It’s just like him to fight a little dirty.

I freeze, and so does he. He’s ready to fight or flight depending on what I do.

Instead of looking at his hand forcing itself into one of my still healing gunshot wounds, I look back to him. He immediately loosens his grip once we make eye contact. I gasp for air, unintentionally, since my shoulder starts burning. And just like that, his eyes flick down to my lips and back up again. I see him change before me. Not like before, not like the other night. This is different. I literally see him soften. We can’t do this. We can’t fight anymore. But one thing I know about Eliot is he’ll never stop being a hopeless romantic, no matter how hard he hits.

I throw my hands around his neck, drawing him roughly to my lips. He doesn’t fight me this time. He pushes into me, grabbing my hips and bodily heaving me against the wall. I lace my fingers into his short hair, but enough to grab all the same; when I pull, he draws his teeth sharply against my lip.

He pushes the shoulders of my plaid shirt—his plaid shirt—down to my elbows. He seems to like the restriction of movement. I fight against it for a moment, pushing him away. I pull off my plaid shirt completely, throwing it away from me. He responds in kind, and I unintentionally tilt my head once I see the way his muscles make that knit tank top look tiny.

His hands find their way under my t-shirt, pressing and scratching against my skin. I leave tracks from my nails down his shoulder blades as he runs his mouth, his teeth, down my neck. It doesn’t take him long before he rips at my belt, undoing it and my jeans. With a heave of his hands, he pins my wrists above me. I drag his lip in my teeth, pulling him closer to me. Using the wall, I jump up just enough to wrap my legs around his waist.

The heat, the anger, everything that’s happened between us rises in my chest. When this started, I wasn’t sure if he was going to kill me or fuck me. The jury’s still out. Still could be both.

Just as he’s about to draw away for a breath, I manage to slide out of his grip.

“I’m not done trying to get the truth from you,” he mutters. He’s got that look in his eyes again: he doesn’t know whether to jump me or… well, jump me.

“Maybe if you’re good, I’ll share,” I say. Before I can dodge him, I spin into the nearest room: his room. Lucky. He rushes me and throws me against the wall. He grabs me, pulls my legs around his waist again, and he bodily heaves me up. I distract him by pulling off my t-shirt and sports bra off in one go. His lips run down my chest, and I feel myself heaving for breath; he cups me in his hand, kneading, squeezing me between his fingertips.

I gasp as he pinches, just hard enough, and grinds against me. So I retaliate: I drop from my perch once more, turning and throwing him against the wall. He’s surprised enough. He pauses, acknowledging my threat level, so I unbutton his jeans. He grabs my wrists.

“We’re not doing this until I’ve got the truth.”

“I said if you were good, I would share,” I articulate, not ready to fight my way out of his grip. But I’m suddenly screwed when he starts backing me up, backing me until my back meets another wall with a thud. I drop, pulling my hands from his wrists, then go in for a few punches—mostly with my left. He blocks them, he keeps blocking them, until I suddenly get tired and I realize he was waiting for it.

He clasps my left wrist in his, throwing it over my head once more, and surprises me again: his hand slams against my windpipe, pinning me hard. This time, he’s serious. He’s actually serious. He tightens his grip, and I almost see stars.

“Talk.” He sets his jaw, but his hand stays at my throat. I reach up, resting my hand on his fingers.

“They would’ve killed me,” I explain simply, hoarsely. “I didn’t want to die. I knew you would be okay.”

“You tried to kill me.”

“Kiev… I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were there. Not until it was too late. We were guns for hire, El! We were on opposite sides of the matter. You know if I ever actually tried to kill you, you would be dead.”

“Try again,” he growls. He stares at me for a moment. It must have been that grifter teaching him how to read people. He squints at me then almost imperceptibly nods like he’s learning to believe me.

“It should have never happened,” I breathe.

I’ve taken him off guard, just for a second, as he looks to me, surprised. He lifts his hand off throat, and after a beat, he releases my wrist. I drop them to my sides.

“I wish I never had to do it. Not to you. Especially not to you. When I saw it was you… I knew I couldn’t do what I had to do. The thing about Kiev is I failed that mission. I failed because I hesitated. Because it was you. I nearly killed you. But that ‘nearly’ is what saved your life. I was able to get out, and so were you, without them coming after you. For about five years, anyway. I tried to save you. I did my best. You know I would never allow Moreau to… to… I would die first, Eliot. Ever since Bosnia. I would die first.”

He takes a step back. He’s fuming, I can see it in his face, and it comes to a head. He slams his fist into the door. It doesn’t even splinter, but a picture frame—what looks like a selfie of five people—falls off the wall and the glass breaks. It’s the only thing hanging on the wall. He doesn’t make a move to clean it up, but he does stare at it for a moment.

Eliot Spencer isn’t the guy I knew before. Whatever he’s done here has changed him.

I wish they could change me.

He strides back over to me, and this time, the touch on my neck is gentle. He slips his fingers into my hair, pulling me into a kiss; he’s not biting, he’s not grating, this is different. I throw my arms around his neck, and he sinks his thumbs into my hips, slipping under my waistband of my jeans and pushing them down to the floor. I kick off my boots, I kick off my jeans, and let my hands wander to his. His lips move to my neck, much gentler, much softer, more caress than skin and teeth. I arch into his kiss and then arch into his hand when he pushes my underwear down.

His jeans slip to the floor as soon as I can make them fall, and he kicks off his boots, and starts stepping backwards, not letting go of me. But instead of falling against the bed like I expect, he draws me up to kneel on his bed, the springs creaking under us. I’m not used to this. I’m not sure how this is supposed to feel.

This doesn’t seem to catch his thought. Instead, he pushes my hair back from my face, kissing me, drawing me closer to him. Before I have to gasp for breath, he breaks the kiss, sliding me down onto the bed. I threaten to claw him again, but he grabs my hand, kissing my fingertips.

“Have you lost your edge, Spencer?” I say, pulling him back into me. He braces his hands near my shoulders, showing more restraint than I’ve ever seen from him.

“You should try it sometime,” he says, kissing me, my jaw, my ear, then my neck. I draw in breath, and he works his mouth down my neck. He runs his lips across the scar. “I don’t remember this one.”

“Shanghai. Cheap blade.”

He runs his thumb over it like he’s trying to erase it from my skin. He avoids my still bandaged wound on my shoulder, but his mouth travels down my chest, in a wet line, to my stomach.

Before I have time to react, he reaches for his condoms on the night stand. I let him focus, just for a second, before I’m back at him, forcefully kissing him until he pulls me back. I raise up on my knees, waiting for him to return, and when he shifts off the bed, he pushes me back onto the bed.

At first, I expect him to be sharp and forceful, but when he slides himself into me, as I gasp, his calloused hands shift around my hips, and he’s gentle. Eliot Spencer is gentle.

I gasp, reaching up to meet his mouth, but he doesn’t quite comply.

“I’m assuming you forgive me for Kiev,” I say.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t kiss me right away, either. But he rests his hands on either side of my shoulders, and he thrusts deep.

“Don’t assume. You haven’t apologized,” he whispers.

“What—what can I do to—to gain your forgiveness?” I stutter. He’s good. He’s always been good.

“You could use your mouth for better things than talking, Novak,” he says. Another day, in another life, it would have sounded sharp. This just sounded like an invitation.

“Then make me, Spencer.”

He tightens his grip on me and doubles his efforts: his thrusts gain speed. Any memory of the bloodshed I had suffered melts away; I melt into him. Breaths shift to moans, moans shift to cries, and the familiarity rises between us as the familiar feeling rises in me. I come crying his name. He comes whispering mine in my ear.

Shakily, I gently find my way back down onto his bed, spent from the effort of the day and the night.

“Damn, Eliot.”

“C’mon, Charlie. You can’t be tired already.”

“Just a little. It’s the gunshot wounds.”

Instead of flopping down next to me, though, he gets up and starts towards his bathroom.

“I don’t think I can go again,” I say, already falling asleep.

“I never said we’d go again,” Eliot mutters, giving me a hand. I take it and he gently pulls me to my feet. “I just know I’m going to have to bandage you back up again. Might as well make it worth my while.”

“Is this like Romania?”

“Satu Mare or Brasov, because those are two very different situations.”

“Satu Mare.”

“It’s going to be exactly like that,” he says, pulling me close. I feel his warm breath on my neck.

“Thank God. I kicked your ass in Brasov.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “You did. You did.”


	8. You said I can’t prove to you you’re not gonna die alone

I don’t have a storage unit in New York. I have a person. And by the time we get there, I’ve already called him, and he’s gathered my supplies.

Although we’ve got an extra day, Eliot’s decided I’m not allowed to go anywhere on my own. Not after what happened. I tried to explain to him it was dangerous for people to see us together, but he didn’t seem to mind: Foley and Swithey were under surveillance, and they were still in Boston. Probably scared to follow us. That’s what I’m hoping.

Bea and Vi are a day behind us. Parker and Hardison are haunting the Met.

Although Eliot doesn’t ask, I feel the need to explain as we walk.

“I’ve got a guy,” I say, striding down Fifth Avenue. Eliot scrambles to keep up. “He’s going to meet us at Fifth and 60th.”

“I hate New York,” Eliot grumbles, looking down each street, checking out each person that walks by for any threat level. I’m focused on making it to the meeting point fast enough, but before I can check my watch, I hear that distinctive voice.

"We feel free when we escape, even if it be but from the frying pan into the fire.“

I turn to see the familiar bald, bespectacled man I befriended a few years ago here in New York. “Mozzie. Thanks for meeting me.”

“Anything for a friend. Uh, speaking of friends….?” He gestures to Eliot. Arms crossed, scowl set. He’s not looking very nice at the moment.

“He’s with me. You’re fine.”

He still eyes me like I’m trouble. “These kind of supplies… they’re like you’re amping up for some big job.”

“I’m prepared. That’s what.”

“I still don’t like it. I don’t have to like it, do I?” He says, shifting from foot to foot. “Should I skip town for a while?”

“No! Mozzie, stop it. You’re freaking yourself out. Again.”

“One has to protect one’s skin—“

“Listen, Mozzie. Do you have it?” I say, gesturing towards the bag on his shoulder.

He just groans. “Charlie, this is very unsafe. I implore you to make better decisions.”

I pull the bag off his shoulder and place the envelope of cash in his breast pocket, tapping it once. “I know what I’m doing. Don’t forget Brooklyn.”

“How could I forget Brooklyn,” he mutters under his breath. “Why must you always invoke the memory of Brooklyn?”

“Don’t be a stranger, Mozzie,” I say, dropping a kiss on his cheek.

“Be careful, Charlie!” He calls out as we head back towards Fifth Avenue. He knows I won’t. I’m never as careful as I should be. Especially not with a pile of C4.

“I don’t know what you’re plannin’ on doin’ with that, but I don’t think you need it,” Eliot says as we cross Fifth.

“Don’t worry about what I do. Worry about what you do.”

He grumbles, but doesn’t feel the need to respond. Instead, he seems to perk up, listening to a pair of voices just in front of us.

“Nate, if you’re that worried about it, we should call Eliot.”

“No, no. They’ve got their own crew now. They don’t need to babysit us on a con we’ve run before.”

“You don’t want them to know we’re running cons again.”

“C’mon, Lara. Darling. It’s one con. One con, remember?”

“That’s what you said in London.” The dark haired woman in front of us leans in and kisses the cheek of the man she’s walking with. He’s carrying a pile of shopping bags. “I’m serious. Call Eliot. I already know you know they’re here.”

“What’re you talking—” The man tries, looking at his phone. “Okay, fine, I called Parker last night,” he mutters, and they stop at the corner of 61st. He pulls out his phone and Eliot puts up a hand to hold me back.

Phone rings once, twice. It keeps ringing. Eliot just strides forward, phone ringing, until he gets Lara’s attention. Her face brightens, until she physically turns Nate towards Eliot. He doesn’t speak, he just crosses his arms.

“El-Eliot. Hi. I can explain,” Nate says, a little dumbly, but he ends the call, glancing at Lara.

“Running cons again?”

“Just one,” Lara says, glaring at Nate.

“Short—short hair,” Nate says, motioning at his neck. “I like it.”

“Nate. C’mon. The job,” Eliot says, skipping past pleasantries.

“What are you doing in New York? Who’s she—” he looks to me, sizes me up. “Charlie Novak. I remember you. El Salvador, right?”

I give him a smile. “2000. Yeah. And Paris, 2007.”

“That’s right. You look better now than, well, both times I’ve seen you.”

Eliot glances from me to Nate and back again, then harrumphs, like he should have known.

“You’re running a job here too, aren’t you?” The woman says. Lara. Lara….

“You’re Sophie Devereaux,” I say, it all clicking. That’s why she got out of the game. She married the former insurance investigator.

“It’s actually Lara Ford now,” she says, giving Eliot a wide grin. Even he manages a smile. It’s sweet. The Eliot I used to know comes out a little.

“Alright, alright. What’s the job?” Eliot asks.

Nate glances at me for a second, then to Lara, then back to Eliot. Without another word, Nate pulls Eliot away from the two of us.

“Guess I’m not allowed to be part of that conversation,” I say to Lara.

“Don’t let it bother you. He does that with people he doesn’t trust quite yet.”

I watch the two of them, speaking animatedly. “I wouldn’t trust me either.”

“Nate knows you,” Lara says. “I know about 2007 in Paris. Shot twice, yeah?”

I don’t look at her. Instead, I survey Central Park, squinting under the sunlight. “Nate always seems to find me when I’m bleeding.”

“I hope that’s not an omen,” she says. “So how do you know Eliot?”

I give her a once over. Her, in Jimmy Choos, and Prada, and Barney’s… me, in ripped jeans, a plaid shirt, boots. There’s a distinctive difference, and she knows it. “Croatia,” I finally answer.

“That was quite a long time ago,” she continues. “When’s the last time you’ve spoken?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“I’d say at least eight years. Probably longer.”

I finally snap. “Alright, I know you’re a grifter, but how the hell do you know that?”

She gives me a sly smile. “We worked with him since 2008. We would have known about you if it was between then and now. So, eight years at least. And whatever happened, it was probably something extremely violent and hurtful to one or both parties. This is the first time you’ve been together since, isn’t it?”

“This is gettin’ creepy,” I grumble.

“I can tell by the way you look at him,” she says, glancing from me then to Eliot and back. “You scowl, but your eyes are soft, like no matter what he does, even if it drives you crazy, you still go back to how you always felt.”

“Oh, yeah? How I always felt?”

Her face goes soft. “If you’ve known each other since Croatia, but something happened to break you apart, even after ten years, you both have fallen back into sense of warped reality you had before. You’re in love with him. Or he’s in love with you. Or both.”

“Alright, we’re done here.”

She just gives me a smirk. I’m just thankful when Eliot and Nate come back.

Eliot touches my arm, just barely—“You good with us helpin’ them real fast?”

I accidentally make eye contact with Lara, and she breaks into a full, knowing smile.

“Should be only an evening,” Nate says.

I shake off Eliot’s hand. “I’m in.”

Nate seems to settle in, then almost nearly starts gesturing with his hands, but I cut him off.

“What am I going to do?”

At first, he looks surprised, glancing to Eliot and back. “Oh. Well, your role would be to accompany us, undercover, to the gala dinner, watch our backs, maybe beat up a security guard or two, and we’ll pay you.”

“What time?” I ask, checking my watch. “I need to get this back to the hotel, then we’re free.”

“Do you have anything to wear?” Lara says, suddenly scrutinizing my outfit.

“Uh, do I look like I’ve got somethin’ to wear to a gala dinner?” I snap.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Lara comments. “Any preferences?”

“Pref—preferences? What do you mean?”

“In dress?”

I look to Eliot, not really sure how to answer. “Uhh… Probably should at least cover the gunshot wound still healing on my right shoulder, and the shorter the better so I can fight if I need to?”

Lara nods enthusiastically, while Nate just shakes his head.

“What about color?”

I’m already getting angry. “Color? Color? I really don’t care. We’ll meet you later,” I say hefting my duffle over my shoulder and crossing the street. I’m off about half a block before Eliot says anything.

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For helpin’ Nate and Lara.”

“It’s not for you. Consider it a debt to be paid,” I say.

After the drop off, we end up back at their hotel. Their hotel is the Four Seasons. I cringe, slipping into the doors and traipsing in my muddy boots over the weird floral design on the floor.

“You didn’t have to agree to this, you know. I could’ve done it myself.”

We slip into the elevator and head up to the 46th floor. I’m not even sure I want to respond. I don’t, really, I just cross my arms and settle against the back of elevator, not looking at him. The elevator stops at the twelfth floor, but the woman waiting with her suitcase takes one look at Eliot and I and decides to take another car.

“I told you before. I’ve got a debt. I’m gonna pay it,” I mutter, stepping out of the car and heading down the hallway. I don’t wait for Eliot as I knock on the room number they texted us. Nate opens the door just far enough to let us come in.

“Good, good!” Lara calls out from the bathroom. “How are you—oh.” She visually scans me. I’m wearing the same thing I did before. I didn’t realize it was so wrong. “We’ve got to—both of you, leave. Now. I have to fix this.”

“There is nothin’ wrong with me,” I growl, but Eliot starts laughing while he and Nate leave me with this Lara. I’m going to kill him later. Definitely going to kill him.

“I’m just not sure what the problem is,” I say to her, crossing my arms.

“Stop. Don’t do that, dear. Have you never run a grift at a fancy dress party before?”

“Yeah. A few times, actually.”

“My God, you have that same rough timbre to your voice too,” she seems to mutter. “Tell me, just how old were you when you met Eliot?”

“Seventeen. Why is this relevant?”

“No matter,” she says, dragging me into the bathroom. “Hair and makeup. We have plenty of time.”

I lean against the countertop, cross my arms, and let her do what she has to. Oh well. As long as she doesn’t try to—

“You were seventeen, then? And if you said Croatia, the only time I remember Eliot mentioning Croatia was during the liberation, so—“

“’95.”

“Wow,” she says, brushing something over my face. She just keeps dabbing and brushing. I try not to pay attention. “So twenty-one years. What gave you two the falling out?”

“I tried to kill him?” I offer. She continues her work, this time, silently; she tells me to close my eyes. It’s been a while since I’ve actually put on makeup. I gave up a few years ago. Too much work.

“That’ll do it, won’t it?” She mutters. I don’t know what she’s doing now, but at least it’s not painful. “What happened to bring you two back together?”

I think she’s doing some sort of eyeliner or mascara, so I talk lightly. “I was shot three times after being tortured in an abandoned theatre in Boston, and I was lucky enough to hear a rumor he was in town, so I gambled. He would either let me die, or open the door and help. Either that or die on the streets.”

“Oh. Wow. I could never be a hitter. Open.”

She continues with mascara. “Not with those hands, you couldn’t.”

“Don’t underestimate my right hooks,” she counters. “Eliot’s taught me a few things.”

“So I’ve heard,” I say. She starts playing with my hair. “I don’t want it down, just in case.”

Squinting, I think she finally figures out what she wants to do, then attacks me with bobby pins. It doesn’t take long for her to be happy, and then she grabs a tube of red lipstick. After making me do a number of things to make sure the lipstick was perfect, she mentions a dress in the other room and runs off.

I turn around and look at myself in the mirror. My hair is done back in twists and little braids into a bun. It makes me look like a Greek goddess. But the makeup she’s done makes me look like a femme fatale. It’s kind of nice. It’s flattering, really.

“Here we are,” she begins, holding up a very sparkly, very sequin-covered cocktail dress. It’s short, it’s tight, with split sleeves. “I’ve worn it once. Considered wearing it again, but Nate bought me something at Saks.”

“Oh, thank goodness for that,” I mutter as she hands it to me. “Put that on. It will fit. Trust me. Shoe size? Please say eight and a half.”

“Eight, but I can make it work,” I say. She tosses a pair of silver heels at me.

I do as she says. I guess I don’t have a choice, really. Once I slide out of my boots and jeans and ripped clothes into this dress and my bike shorts, I hear the men talking from outside. It’s already nearing the time of the gala. I can’t quite get the dress zipped up myself, but I slip the shoes on and relearn very quickly how to walk in them to the door.

I poke my head out of the door, still holding my dress at the back, and Eliot’s the first one I see.

“Hey! Hey, I need help,” I whisper, nudging him over. When he turns around, I see he’s changed too: full black tuxedo and his glasses. I don’t even cut off my gasp.

“Thanks,” he says under his breath, gesturing for me to turn around. He zips up the dress, his hand resting unnecessarily on my hip before I turn around.

“You look nice,” he mutters.

“Thanks. Thanks—“ I stutter, before looking up to Lara and Nate. Nate grins smugly. Lara just looks like she’s right about everything she’s ever thought about someone.

“We don’t have comms,” Nate begins. “We’ll monitor each other on a visual basis. Stay in teams. Don’t get separated. Got it?”

I still don’t even know what we’re stealing, but I don’t care. I nod once.

Let the con begin.

~*~

The art deco style of the FIFTY7 event space at the Four Seasons is enough to make me cringe. It’s so ornate. So overdone.

But, as we walk up the stairs to the main floor a few couples behind the Fords, Eliot offers me his arm and I gladly take it. It’s a strange detour, but so far I’m not going to be one to complain.

We get ushered into the event. I’m still not positive what it is. I really don’t care. Eliot guides me to a table—a high table for two, where he can survey one exit while I can see the other. A few more couples mill about, a speaker says something, but I’m busy scanning the area: there are more guards here than necessary. Whatever this gala is, it seems as though there are enough important people here to warrant a high security presence.

“Six guards, not from the hotel. So what exactly are they lifting?” I ask, keeping my eyes locked on Nate and Lara.

Eliot just sighs, like he doesn’t really want to explain but he’s going to anyway. “Remember after Satu Mare, I went off the grid for a little while ‘cause I had that hit on me? Remember Guttman?”

Immediately the rage seeps into my soul. “Guttman? Guttman? Like—“

“Yeah, him.”

“Is he still alive?” I ask through my teeth.

“Not for very long, apparently.”

“I’ll kill him with my bare hands—“

“Calm down. Let me finish. He sent me to get the Dagger of Aqu’abi.”

“You never did, though,” I remember.

“Nah, but that night, me, Nate, Lara, Parker and Hardison all tried to steal it.”

I start laughing. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding. Stop laughin’. You’re loud. God. The thing was, none of us got it. Couple of years ago, we find out this asshole has it, and we start planning on stealin’ it, but never got to it. Moreau got in the way,” he says, scanning the crowd. “Guess this is the real final con. She couldn’t let it go. Or he couldn’t let it go.”

“It’s not even that impressive,” I say, squinting across the room. The gold dagger sits in a glass case at the other side of the room.

“Not the point,” Eliot grumbles.

“The one that got away?”

“Could say that,” he says. A waiter comes by, and all they have is champagne, so Eliot caves and grabs two. “So, you know Nate. You’ve known him for a while. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Irrelevant,” I say, not looking at him.

“Cee.”

When I turn back to look at him, he peers over those half rimmed glasses. He’s doing that thing where he looks at me until I break. This time, it takes a while. It takes a tiny smirk. That’s it, and I break.

“El—El Salvador. 2000.”

It clicks. I see it click for him. “That was when—“

“Yeah,” I say, adjusting in my seat. “Mayan ruins. That retrieval job.”

“I don’t need the whole rundown, you know. I was there,” he says.

“Four broken ribs, broken wrist, dislocated shoulder. Uh, shot in the thigh.”

He looks at me in shock. “Shot… shot? I didn’t…”

I take a long drink from my champagne. “I got shot by my employer. When I failed. You left, I don’t know how long I was there, to be honest. He shot me. I dragged myself out of the ruin, and got back to some church. I was planning on dying there. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Uh, well, um… Nate Ford found me. He… you know the item you took from me? Well, he was tracking both of us. For his insurance company. He found me, patched me back up, and told me I could repay him by taking down the guy who stole it in the first place.”

“Wait. You’re tellin’ me you worked with Nate on one of his little Robin Hood stunts back in 2000?”

“You could say that.”’

“You should’ve told me.”

“I should’ve done a lot of things,” I mutter, downing the rest of my champagne. I scan the crowd and see security listening to their devices. “We may have a problem.”

“I see it.”

“Distraction, or full out attack?”

“Does it look like we have the room for a full out attack?” He hisses. “Room full of civilians, Cee. Think about it.”

“I am in a sequin dress and heels, El. Do you really think I’m used to this kind of shit?”

He looks at me, double takes, and then is on his feet. I follow suit, somehow without falling.

“Event kitchen, back hallway. Staff elevators?” I offer.

“Back balcony,” he finishes, checking his watch. “We’re gonna have an opportunity in about thirty seconds.”

I squint to see Nate fiddling with his phone. “What’s he got up his sleeve?’

“A program Hardison should have never open sourced to Nate. Power’s gonna go out. Twenty seconds. I’ve got the far guys. Can you handle these two?” He gestures with his head to the ones closest to me.

“Twenty seconds? I can have them running for their mommas,” I say, cracking my neck. “Meet you in the back.”

He gives me a smirk. The adrenaline already flows. I stride towards the pair of them, giving them my best look of seduction. One moves a step closer.

“Hello boys, you come here often?” I hum, reaching over and stroking my fingers across the bicep of the closest one. The other moves in. Stupidly.

The lights crack out, and there are more than a few screams in alarm. I grab heads and smash them against each other. Knowing I’ve only pissed the meatheads off, I start off towards the utility hallway, hearing the loud footfalls of the security behind me. There’s definitely more than two, so I know Eliot’s brought his friends.

When the lights come on somewhere in the utility hallway, I scan it quickly as he falls into line beside me. I count them, very obviously, pointing to each one as I do. One of them pulls a knife. Eliot chuckles.

“It’s six against two,” one of the dudes in the front says. “Come with us. Quietly.”

“That is one thing neither of us as learned to do,” I say, and I’m not sure if Eliot’s laughing or disgusted with me because the punches begin. He segues into the flurry of sharp hits his martial arts training has given him. I have a different idea.

I slip down a side hallway, pretending to run, and immediately get rushed. Three in front of me. Eliot’s got his hands full, so I hold my hands up, looking as panicked as possible.

“No, okay, sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to antagonize you,” I begin backing up and soon my back hits the door. It’s the door to the balcony. I’ll take it. It doesn’t have an emergency exit sign.

I slide my back against it, and it kicks open into the night. They launch at me, but I hit back.

I hit slower and heavier. First guy to go down is the one I slam against the corner of the wall, causing a slight blood streak as he slides down. Not dead. Definitely going to have a headache.

Second one takes his time. He’s drawn a knife, the other wields his fists. Weak.

With the heel on my shoe, it’s easy to kick up and throw it out of his hands. For once I’m really glad I wore my shorts under this dress. Makes fighting a little less… unladylike.

With the knife gone, I go for the knees, he goes up. I go down. He lands a punch across my face, but I shake it off. I slam his head against brick. Third guy goes to run, but Eliot meets him with a right hook that has him unconscious before he’s hit the ground.

“Took ya longer than I expected,” Eliot says, dragging a pair of unconscious men onto the balcony. Luckily four of them carried pairs of handcuffs. I hook them to the railing while Eliot holds the door open—it locks from the outside. Our guards’ll be shit out of luck when they realize they’re tied up, with no cell phones, on a balcony with no way out.

“Probably a fire hazard,” I muse, adjusting my shoe as the door shuts behind us.

“Been a while since we’ve been in a fight like that,” he says, glancing towards me.

“Felt nice. Felt nice fighting on the same side again.”

“I still haven’t forgiven you,” he clarifies. Kiev. It’s back again. “But you’re gettin’ there.”

“I’ll take it for now,” I say. He squints at me, adjusts his glasses.

“Hold on, your lipstick’s smudged.”

“Is that a euphemism?”

“Nah, shut up. Stop movin’.” He takes his thumb and runs it against part of my bottom lip, clearing out the smudge.

“Cheap shot,” I whisper, but his thumb lingers, and suddenly we’ve forgotten about the mention of Kiev. We’re still breathing heavily from the fight, holding on to that adrenaline and bad decision making.

With barely a touch, he pushes me against the wall, lips against mine. Blood on my lips, blood pumping, it’s like we’ve never stopped. His fingers run up my thigh until he can pull it around his hip, and—

Someone clears his throat. Eliot drops my leg, draws away from me quickly, and I look away, hiding the color in my cheeks.

“C’mon. We’re outta here,” Nate says, the humor already seeping into his voice. “Did you, you know, deal with security?”

“Security’s dealt with, let’s go,” Eliot says, voice gravelly. Lara, guarding a large Gucci bag, grasps onto Nate’s hand as we find the nearest elevator and slide inside.

We’re completely silent. In the metallic reflection of the elevator door, I see Nate and Lara share a quick smirk, but on the other side of the elevator, Eliot just grimaces.

“How’d you do it without setting off the alarms?” I ask, glaring at Nate.

“Oh, IYS had the fake in lockup,” Nate says. “Just a Yankee Swap.”

“Nice, nice,” I say, quickly getting out of the elevator at the designated floor. Once we get back to the room, Nate and Lara are quick to gather their bags.

“Where are you going?” I immediately ask as Nate takes out his checkbook.

“Oh, we’re not staying,” he says, looking up from it.

“Nate—“ I stop him from writing on the check. “Pay Eliot, but I’m not taking it.”

He looks so confused. “Why? You just nailed six guards on a balcony—“

“El Salvador. Paris. Can we at least call one of those favors null and void?”

Smirking, he nods once. “Alright. Sounds like a deal. Eliot?”

He crosses his arms, shaking his head. “I’ll collect another day.”

“Always a pleasure working with you,” he says, sliding away his checkbook. “Darling—“

She peeks out of the bathroom, her bag packed. “You know, it’s a shame we never actually got to use the room.”

“Oh. Since you won’t let me pay you,” Nate says, tossing Eliot a keycard. “We don’t need it. You kids have fun.”

Lara gives me a sly smirk.

For the first time, Eliot stutters. “Nate, we got our own con to run. What the hell? Where the hell you think you’re goin’—Nate!”

The two of them skitter towards the door. “You two have fun, alright?” Nate says. “Good seeing you again, Charlie.”

“Good to meet you. And keep the dress! Trust me when I say it looks better on the floor!” Lara says, slipping out of the door with a giggle and leaving us in the suite alone.

“Never gonna hear the end of this one,” Eliot mutters.

“Well, we shouldn’t let a perfectly good room go to waste,” I say, stepping backwards towards the door and locking it behind me.

“Those security guards will wake up eventually.”

“And they’ll find us if we leave.We’re not registered guests, and you know this place’s security systems take fifteen minutes to reboot after a power outage. We’re not even on cameras.”

“Did Hardison tell ya that?” He says, pulling his glasses off and cleaning a smudge.

“Your knuckles are bloody, Eliot.”

He slips into the bathroom and starts running water to wipe his knuckles off. I finally look around the suite, taking in all the angles and the richness. Too expensive. I peer out the window. We’re too high. 46 floors. I have to step back, because it’s disorienting.

“Don’t like the view?”

When Eliot steps out of the bathroom, he finishes cleaning the blood off his knuckles and tosses the towel back into the room. He’s pulled his bowtie undone, letting it hang from his open collar.

“No. I’m pretty fond of it, actually.”

“Are you hungry?” He deflects, grabbing the in-room service menu. He scrutinizes it, peering hard at it through his glasses. He swiftly flops down on the armchair.

“We didn’t even get to eat,” I say, circumventing the table. I slide the menu upwards so I can sit on his lap, leaning back against the arm of the chair.

“Oh, so this is how we’re gonna play this?” He asks, still reading the menu.

“Your friends gave us their room. How disappointed would they be if we wasted it?”

“I don’t know about you, but first, we’re gonna run up their tab,” he muses, resting his hand on my hip, “It’s the least we could do.”

“Naturally,” I say. “But we should probably do that later, don’t you think?” I say, taking the menu out of his hand. “You know, I didn’t get to tell you,” I say, tracing my fingers over his hand. “You do clean up nice. For an American.”

He scoffs. “You were just lucky Lara had a dress to cover your bullet holes.”

“For the record, I like you better with the short hair. The long hair always made you look like a hippie.”

“Take that back right now.”

“I say things I mean.”

“I know you do.”

We’re in a deadlock, until I finally just do what I’ve been thinking: I swing my leg around to the other side of his hips and straddle him.

“So that’s how we’re gonna play this,” he repeats, pulling me down to kiss him. The first time is light. It’s much lighter than it was in the hallway. My heart jumps. He might mean it this time. I lean into it, pushing just enough, opening my lips just far enough. I can’t push him, that’s the problem; but when his hands slide down to my hips, I know whatever I’m doing is right. I push myself closer, take him closer to me, pull his mouth into mine, and his fingertips slide just under the hem of my dress.

And there we stay, for moments, for minutes, for longer than we usually do. He gains barely inches on my thighs, he takes his time, knowing I’m right where he wants me.

“You’re literally huntin’ me right now,” he finally says. “It’s kinda scary. You’ve got that look on your face.”

“What look on my face?” I say, taken aback.

“I’m not sure if you’re gonna jump me or… well, jump me,” he says.

“Ever the romantic, aren’t you, El?”

“Been a long time since I’ve heard that.”

“What, El? Or being a romantic?” I say, trying to resituate on his lap and nearly turn my ankle.

“You’re gonna kill yourself in those shoes,” he says, looking down. He just uses it as an excuse to run his hand from my ankle to the edge of my lace dress, stopping at my thigh.

I stand up over him, balancing on one to unhook the strap. His eyes shift from my lips to my chest and back again, until the shoes are off and I’m back on his lap. I can feel him rising underneath me, so I shift one more time, dragging myself over him. He gasps a little as I kiss him.

“You think we can beat New Orleans?” I whisper, pulling his jacket off with little to no resistance. I focus on his shirt sleeves, and once they’re unbuttoned, his hands slip under the hem of my dress.

“Why you gotta always bring up the past?” He says, dragging his hands loose then pulling bobby pins from my hair. Once he’s got them all, I shake out the curls. He seemingly lets out a held breath.

“I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like it’s all we’ve got.”

“Not tonight, it’s not.”

His hands trace up my back, pulling me into him again. He kisses me until I can’t breathe, then kisses me one more time, and starts inching the zipper of my dress down. It’s a torturous pace, and he knows it, but keeps kissing me until I have to gasp for air.

“You know the curtain’s open,” I say as he slips his fingers around the open zipper and slides the dress down my arms.

“It’s the 46th floor. If anyone can see us from here, I’d applaud ‘em and give ‘em a beer,” he mutters. My dress ends up around my hips, but he’s busy enough with my exposed skin. It draws him to me like a magnet, and he runs his mouth up the center of my chest to my mouth, then back again.

I go for his shirt. I’ve got it unbuttoned so quickly, he has to fumble with me to pull it off after I release the damn cummerbund.

“I was serious though. You looked really good in this tux. At the risk of sounded clichéd, though, it’ll look better on the floor.”

He lifts me up without warning, setting me down on the edge of the desk. I pull off his white undershirt, then unbutton his pants while I easily wiggle out of Lara’s dress. Off with his shoes and pants, and then my shorts, until we’re both only standing in our underwear; I nearly knock over the lamp on the desk as he bends me backwards, kissing my chest again.

I close my eyes; I close my eyes against the feeling of his fingers against my skin. Like before, he doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t want to hurt me. Not the way we used to. No, even in comparison to before, he’s gentle. Ever the gentleman.

He scoops me up in a bridal carry, setting me down on the bed. He starts at my lips, my neck, his hot breath dusting me in smells of alcohol and lust.

“How many times you been shot?” He finally says, raising up on his hands over me.

“A dozen. Same as you.”

“Now it is. Wasn’t before,” I say, running my knuckles up his arm.

He just gives me a conceding smirk before first, lightly kissing my shoulder, then shifting down to kiss the nearly closed slice on my side, then all the way down to my thigh. I can feel his lips against my skin as he talks.

“That leaves nine.”

“Left arm, bullet graze, Zagreb,” I say. He kisses that one hard.

“One near miss on my left side,” I say, realizing what he’s doing, “Dodging bullets in Slovenia.”

“Slovenia?” He says with a smirk. “That’s a new one.” Even so, he drags his lips to my side, kissing the scar.

“Two in the right shoulder. Paris.”

“Paris,” he murmurs. “With Nate?”

“Saved my life. Again.”

With that, he comes back to my shoulder, kissing me twice, just lightly enough to make me want him to come back.

“Five more,” he whispers. “Satu Mare.”

“Belgrade,” I correct. “We were fleeing Belgrade.”

He knows the deep slice on the left side, between my ribs, is where Belgrade happened. He kisses me again, tracing his mouth across my chest, stopping at each peak. He takes me into his mouth and I can’t help but arch into him.

“Right thigh,” I say, gasping as he shifts down using mostly his tongue. “El Salvador.”

Pausing, holding my leg, crooking it to run his mouth down the inside, he looks to me from below. I’m rewarded by a long, lingering kiss on the inside of my thigh close to my knee, but I know there are three more.

“Just grazed my right hip,” I say. “Bad shots in New Zealand.”

He kisses me again.

“Two more.”

“Left hip. Shootout in Montreal.”

He doesn’t make a smartass comment. He, instead, draws his mouth up my thigh, across my stomach, and to my hip, running his tongue across the scar. He comes back to my mouth, kisses me once more.

“One.”

I make sure he’s looking at me. “Left side of my chest. Inches from my heart. Kiev.” I reach up to his shoulder, his right shoulder, and see the scar, the bullet wound slowed down by me.

He lightly kisses my shoulder, then he kisses me hard, slipping his hands under my back and pulling me into him. I feel his hands splay against my back, his lips, his mouth, running down my chest again, down to my knees, my thighs. In the light, he runs his fingers over them, runs his mouth over them.

Shifting closer and closer to the center of me, I arch into him and he stops. His gentle hand traces down me until he finds the scars, not gunshot wounds, on both sides, on the inner sides of my thighs. They’re light enough to not be life threatening, but heavy enough to be painful. He knows it.

“Cee—“

“Nigeria,” I say, looking anywhere but at him. “Nigerian prison.”

This time, he growls my name.

“Eliot,” I try, but he just looks pissed. “They’re dead, Eliot. It’s been eleven years.”

His face thankfully falls.

“I killed them,” I confirm simply. He’s suddenly hesitant, leaving his place and coming back up, reaching back up to kiss me.

“I’m fine, Eliot. I’m fine.” I push it from my mind as easily as the memories had come. He does become hesitant, like I expect him to; I gently take his hand, now resting on my hip, and pull him across my thigh. I feel my heat against his fingers as he traces along me.

With that, with my permission, with the permission he knows he has, he slips off my underwear. He kisses my thighs, he kisses them again, running his mouth down the scars, just light enough to recognize them but not too hard as to make me remember.

He makes me forget when he runs his tongue over me. I arch into him, but he gently pushes me back down onto the bed, so I clutch the sheets. God. It’s been so long since he’s made me feel this way, and just as I control my breathing, just as I get a handle on what he’s doing, he slips a finger inside me.

I gasp, I go rigid. It’s unintentional, really; he slows just for a moment. “Don’t tense up,” he says, not moving his hand. I loosen up, I try to melt into him, but as soon as I do, he shifts his fingertips again and I bite back my tongue.

“You got a problem with followin’ directions,” he mutters but doesn’t stop. He just keeps going faster. His free hand slips up my stomach, and I guide it to my breast. Breathe, Cee. Just breathe, even though it’s coming faster as he moves.

But just as soon as I become comfortable, he draws away from me. He finds his pants, pulls out his wallet, finds a condom, and I let him be, trying to bask in the haze. When he’s back, he’s naked, and he draws me up on my knees.

“A little territorial tonight, aren’t you?” I say, moving closer to him, feeling him close to me. He takes my face with both hands, and all cockiness I had before fades away when he kisses me. I taste him, I taste myself, and once he’s left me gasping again, he slips around me, he slips behind me, and he directs me on my hands and knees.

He slides into me easily. That’s what he planned for. He’s left me wanting, and with each deep thrust, I sink my hands into the sheets. I look back; he’s got himself with one knee on the bed and one set against the floor. I’m perfectly content with this, but he touches my hips, my chest, and soon, the thrusting nearly ceases. He supports me and pulls me to my knees, pushing into me slowly. I slip my foot down over the side of the bed for guidance, until he pulls me against him. I feel the heat of his body against mine. He wraps an arm around me, holding me to him, nearly standing, as we press together.

I can’t help but let my head fall back against his shoulder, gasping; he moves my hair out of the way with his free hand and kisses my neck, my ear, my jaw. His hand slides from my chin, my neck, my chest, all the way down between my legs, until he touches me, he rubs against me, making me cry out, bite my lip.

I whisper his name. I moan his name. I cry his name, and he whispers to do it again, bearing down on me, clutching me tighter. I rest my head against his shoulder, gasping, panting for air, like I’m drowning and Eliot can’t do anything to save me.

I sink my nails into his arm, I can’t help it, I can’t stop it, and he doesn’t try to. I hold on to him like I’ve never held onto him before, and when I finally come, I come so hard I see stars. Eliot has to slide a hand over my mouth to muffle the sound I make for fear of someone else hearing, but I don’t care. The sound of his laughter and my name as he comes is all that matters.


	9. Is there somebody who can watch you?

“Where in the hell were you two last night?”

Hardison accosts us like an angry parent, and I try to hide the sequin dress behind my back as he berates us.

“You could’ve called. You coulda—smoke signals, Eliot? C’mon. You know shit. Wolf—wolf Bat signal. You could’ve come up with somethin’—“

“We were a little busy,” I finally say, brushing past Hardison and slipping into the room that I had called for my own. Off in the corner, secluded, away from everyone else just in case my hands slip when I’m prepping my own warheads. I do hear Hardison changing his tune and not-so-subtly congratulating Eliot in the other room.

I check my bag. Everything’s in there, from det cord to straight up C4. I slide some into my shoes just in case.

“Will you all stop flaunting your sex lives for a moment, and come pay attention?” Vi calls out to everyone in the four-bedroom suite.

Parker speaks up. “Team meeting. Let’s go.”

I put away my tools and slip into the smaller living room, where Vi and Hardison have set up their entire room full of toys.

“Alright. Fake ids,” Hardison starts, typing and looking at the TV, where they’ve made their own monitor. “Charlie, you’re going to be Nadia Williams—workin’ as prisoner transport for thirteen years. Stopped a major fight between two drug dealers at your last assignment, earning you a commendation and a statewide notice to all inmates you are not to be trifled with.”

Vi tosses me a kit: driver’s license, ID badge, and a folded up uniform.

“Alright, next: Thomas Burns. Eliot, change of plans. Bea is gonna work on our end as confirmation.”

“Wait, wait, what?” I ask. “We can’t use him. Woodford’s gonna know.”

Bea crosses her arms. “I can’t work prisoner transport. He knows my face. If he sees me, he’ll know the con is blown.”

“We called you in to grift, and you’re not gonna grift?” I snap.

“I’m going to grift. The only grifting you have to do is transferring the prisoner. You sign a few papers, and you’re out. The majority of the work is on the back end, making sure you’re vetted. The hard part is what comes afterward. I’ll be the ones making sure Foley and Swithey end up at the end location, and the one making sure that the police end up at your location to take them all in. Got it?”

“Bob’s your uncle, Fanny’s your aunt, and we’ve broken a guy out of Supermax.”

I flex my fingers. Like candy from a baby. I’m not going to fight with Bea.

* * *

The con itself is so easy, I’m almost sick to my stomach thinking it may not be as easy as it seems.

It can’t be this easy.

With a text message, I confirm the drop off location with Swithey. They’re in a warehouse in Brooklyn. It’s an easy decision to make: I change my clothes, Eliot takes the truck, I leave with Woodford, make sure he gets to the drop point.

At my signal, Bea sends in the police for the double cross.

We slide into the doorway, and I check the surrounding area to make sure we don’t have any witnesses to see him in his orange jumpsuit. Once we get inside, I feel woefully unprotected, save for the earbud. I know they’ll be on me if something happens. I have to remember, I’ve got backup. For the first time in a long time, I’ve got back up.

Swithey and Foley meet us in the middle of the empty floor. Swithey hands Woodford a duffel bag, and he brushes past, obviously going to change.

“Alright, God save the Queen,” I say, slipping my hands in my pockets.

“Police will be en route,” Bea says at my cue.

“The shit I owe you two? We’re good.”

I turn around, ready to head out, but Swithey clears his throat.

“Actually, we’re not done. See, we’ve got our second in command. We’re gonna need you one more time.”

“What? Hell no. I’m not doing another con for you. Nope. I’m out. Game over. Done.”

“Charlie, what’s goin’ on?” Hardison says on my comm.

Woodford waltzes towards me, adjusting his tie. “Are you ready to get started?” He says. “I’m hearing a little bit of resistance coming from you.”

“My team was a one-time deal. We did what we came to do. I asked them a favor, they came, and we’re done.”

“Cee, get outta there,” Eliot mutters.

“Ah, actually, no,” Woodford corrects, “See, there’s a friend of mine that also just got out of prison and is looking to get back on the grid, so to speak. We need you and your team’s help to make that happen.”

I heart footsteps behind me. They’re very distinctive footsteps. I know the weight distribution; I know the shoes.

“Cvijeta Novak,” I hear from behind me. I feel my heart drop. I know the voice. I know it, and it makes me sick. When I turn around, I see him strolling towards me.

I take a heavy breath.

“Damien Moreau.”

I immediately hear Eliot’s sharp intake of breath on the comms. “Cee. Get out. Get out now.”

“Hello, my dear.”

I turn, I start to walk away, but I’m accosted by one of Moreau’s men. He stops me, pushes me forward. I try to move away, but one of his other men stop me. Before I can do a three-sixty, all six men have me surrounded.

“I’m not doing this.”

“It seems to me like you have two choices here. One, I have you killed. This is my preferred choice. Two, you help me. You’re not off the hook for not killing Spencer.”

“I’ll literally fight my way out of here, Moreau. I can kill all of you, and you know it.”

“Yeah, nice try,” he says, chuckling.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Eliot says on the comm. “Cee, don’t try to fight your way out. Please.”

I size them up. I can do this. I could do this. I can—

A punch to my solar plexus, and even I can’t stay upright.

“The Virtuoso. Zante. Eliot Spencer. Alec Hardison. Parker. Oh, and Nate Ford and Sophie Devereaux? I know they’re in New York.” As soon as I raise up, I get punched again. “The Fords took my dagger.”

I knew it. I knew I didn’t like that con. I bet they didn’t even know. I hope Eliot heard it.

I don’t have to ask, because I hear a flurry of curse words from my comm right before one of the mooks pull my comm from my ear and smashes it under his foot.

Quick, I rear up, use my shoulder to push into the other mook and try to knock him down. Moreau steps backward. So does Woodford, behind me. Swithey and Foley, they’re on me. Arms, secured. I wrench my body but I can’t move. Dammit. Dammit—

They start with the kicks. I double over, and it gives them just enough time to throw a knee to my chin. Someone shifts my hands behind my back, and I try to drop into the fetal position, protect my face, but it’s not worth it. I can’t even get up. I can’t move, until suddenly they stop. I try to catch my breath, but the old wounds are catching up to me.

Moreau speaks again. “Here’s how it’s going to be. Whatever con you think you’re going to run? Think again. I’ve got enough of the New York police on my payroll. They’re not coming. You’re going to work for me. You’re going to work for me until I tell you you’re done. You lied to me, Cvijeta. You never killed Eliot Spencer. So your choice is made for you: you kill him, and honor our deal, or you do as I say.”

“You know I’m not gonna kill him,” I snap.

“I was banking on that, actually. Here’s the job: you’re going to get to the FBI headquarters here in New York. You’re going to access their files. You’re going to have your hacker wipe all of my files from their travelling hard drive, along with Woodford’s. And then, you’re going to get the paper trail at the White Collar Unit and destroy them. You have one week. Are we clear?”

It’s painfully clear I don’t have a choice. I see him start to walk away, but I don’t see him leave. I feel a rib snap as they beat it into me. They beat me until I’m numb and unconscious.

I don’t know how long it’s been, but I wake up on the floor of the warehouse. I’m alone, I’m shaking. My head throbs. Probably pistol whipped. I’m gonna start losing brain cells. I just need to breathe. Breathe through the pain.

Shakily, I pull myself to my feet. He didn’t want to smash me up too much. Just enough to get the picture.

I spit the blood from my mouth and hobble towards the side door. I’m going to have some serious bruises. Rolling my shoulder, I push the door open, slide out. I have to take a minute to regain my balance. I’m dizzy. I slide against the wall, trying to focus.

“Cee! Cee, what the hell—“

I clench my eyes shut. “Eliot. You’re a little late.” I look past him. He’s stolen a car. My speech is a little slurred. “It’s Moreau. He’s back. Eliot, he’s back. I couldn’t do anything to stop him.”

“You knew, didn’t you?”

I pitch forward, and he holds my shoulders back, although it hurts. “Knew? Knew what?”

“You knew Woodford’s been working with Moreau,” he says accusingly.

I cough, feeling the pain spread and shake in my broken ribs. “I—I had a suspicion.”

“Dammit, Cee! Why didn’t you tell us?”

“They’re gonna kill you! They’re gonna kill all of us! And I know they can, El! I know they can!”

“You should’ve told me,” He says, pulling my arm over his shoulders.

“I gotta protect you guys from him. I have to protect you from him, Eliot. He wants you dead the most.”

“I know,” he growls. “I’ll take him out first. God, dammit, Cee! You should have told me!” He slides me into the passenger side. I lean my head back, and before I know it, he pulls me out of the car. Did I pass out again? Did I—

“Can you make it to the side entrance?” He says. I brush off his guiding hand and head towards where I see Parker sticking her head out of a doorway. She pulls me inside, and I think they’ve commandeered a service elevator.

“We heard what happened,” she says, holding onto me. The elevator gives me instant vertigo. I try not to fall over when she drags me out and into the empty hallway. “C’mon. Quick.”

We somehow make it back to the suite and I’m worried I’m going to leave blood stains everywhere. But this isn’t like last time: I just have to shake it off. Some ice and some bandages and I’ll be fine. I’ll be—I’ll be fine.

Hardison is the first to greet me, and he drags me inside. I’m still dizzy, so he steadies me.

“I knew we should have sent someone else with you,” he mutters. I see Bea as we walk past. She holds a hand to her mouth, her eyes welling with tears.

“This is my fault,” she says. “Charlie, I’m so—“

“No,” I say, pointing her direction. “This is not your fault. This is my fault for getting us all involved in this in the first place. They know who all of you are. And if we don’t—if we don’t break into the FBI HQ, he’ll start killing all of you.”

They’re completely unfazed, as Hardison nearly lifts me onto the countertop in the main part of the kitchen. Vi gets ice and puts it in a towel. Parker runs to the bathroom, while Hardison starts to pull my bloody plaid shirt off.

“I’m fine, Hardison. I’ll be fine.”

“Listen, just stop talkin’ and let us help you.”

“This is nothing,” I grumble, the taste of blood still prominent on my lips. “Where’s Eliot?”

“Securing the perimeter,” Parker says, coming back with bandages and a wet washcloth.

They find the cuts on my head, my split lip. There’s a random gash on my shoulder, from what, I don’t know. Glass, maybe. I sit in silence, thinking, holding the ice to my head as Parker splints my ring and middle fingers on my right hand. I’m met with just silence.

I get nothing until Eliot makes it back to the room.

“What the hell was that?” He launches. “You knew Moreau was comin’ back?”

Parker holds an ice pack against my ribs. “I didn’t know,” I say. “I told you. I had a suspicion.”

“You coulda said something!”

“How did Moreau get out of jail?” Parker asks, panicked. “I thought he couldn’t get out of that place.”

“Obviously he found a way out,” Hardison starts. “He’s out and he’s pissed.”

“Real pissed,” I mention.

“Let’s recap,” Vi says. She wheels into the room, placing herself at the last spot in the makeshift circle we’ve created. “What’s he want?”

“All records gone. Him and Woodford.” I don’t mention the ‘you’re going to work for me’ bit.

“We get him off our tail by getting into the FBI database and deleting the files on him and Woodford. Easy. I can do that,” Vi says.

“He needs paper documents destroyed too.”

“That’s gonna be a little harder,” Vi says. “I can’t hack a piece of paper.”

“That can’t be all he wanted,” Eliot begins. “There’s gotta be more. There’s always more with Moreau.”

I hear him, but it doesn’t quite compute. My head’s spinning.

Vi groans. “Let’s get back on a tangent, alright? How are we gonna stop this guy from coming after each of us? Quite frankly I enjoy the shred of privacy I still can maintain in this digital world. And I value my life.”

“I know. Eliot, we should call Nate,” I say.

“Nate? Nate? Why should we be calling Nate?” Parker begins.

“We helped ‘em run a con,” Eliot snarls. “The Dagger of Aqu’abi.”

“Somehow Moreau had gotten a hold of it,” I say.

“How—“ Bea begins, but Parker cuts her off.

“We never stole it back, that’s how.”

“We need to make sure Nate and Lara are okay,” I say. “Number… number one priority.”

“You think they’ll help?” Vi asks, crossing her arms.

“They shouldn’t be involved,” Hardison says. “He threatened ‘em too, so they have the right to know. We’ll keep them in the loop and call them in if we need them. Otherwise, we’re gonna get them to lay low.”

“So what’s the plan? What’s the time frame?”

“A-a week.”

“A week?” Vi and Hardison say at the same time.

“I’m sorry, I’m doing the best I can. That’s why they lured us to New York. That’s why they came up with that plan to break out Woodford. Woodford’s answering to Moreau now, and they lured us here. Now, they’ve got us by the balls to break in to the FBI.”

“We’re going to just have to go in,” Bea says, crossing her arms. “Get to the White Collar Unit and destroy the files. I’ll start working up aliases.”

“There’s no ‘we’ in this,” I start. But I look around the room, and see the people Moreau’s threatened.

“We’re gonna stop him,” Eliot says. “We’ll come up with a plan to screw Moreau over. We’ll get the documents and blackmail him.”

“I’ll get a hold of Nate,” Parker says, whirling around, trying to find her phone.

Vi starts towards her computers. “Hardison and I can start looking into Moreau’s financials. His life. What happened in San Lorenzo. See if we can dig up something we can use.”

They’re all in agreement, but I just can’t see it like that. I see it as signing their death sentences.

* * *

I try to lay in bed, but I can’t get comfortable. I keep shifting but nothing feels right. My ice pack’s gotten warm, and I’m still dizzy. The painkillers didn’t help. Instead, I just get up. It’s likely I have a concussion, but we’re going to have to do this anyway.

I shuffle into the living room next to the room I’d claimed. I restrain myself from wanting to trash the entire thing. I don’t want to know how much this suite costs. I just know I want to destroy it.

That’s all I ever want to do: destroy. It’s the only thing I’ve known, and go figure, it’s now that I try to fight it. I’m thirty-eight years old. I can’t change now.

Moreau can’t succeed. He can’t. It’s as simple as that. If I had just killed him whenever I’ve had my multiple chances, none of this would be happening.

Maybe it’s time to let him take me. Something tells me a lot of this would go away if I just… went away.

I hear Eliot come into the room before I see him. He wants me to hear him, otherwise I wouldn’t. I lean precariously against the window pane, and I know it’s keeping me upright at this point.

“You’re blaming yourself again.”

“I didn’t tell you. I should have told you.”

He leans against the other side of the window. “You should’ve. I woulda played this a lot differently.”

“You know why I didn’t.”

“Don’t you think for one second we’re not gonna make this work.”

“He’s screwed me over too many times, Eliot. Not after Kiev. You’ve gotta understand—“

“This isn’t gonna be like Kiev,” he mutters. “I’m not gonna let that happen. You’re not gonna let that happen. Right?”

I nod tiredly. “I just don’t know if I can survive one more run at Damien Moreau. I’ve been shot. I’ve been beaten. What’s next?” I chuckle. “I’m just… I’m tired, Eliot. I’m tired.”

“Tired of what, exactly?”

“All this running. I just want to stop running.”

“You can, you know,” he says quietly, like it’s a secret.

“Parker and Hardison have given me the talk already.”

He chuckles like he’s not surprised. “You thinkin’ about it?”

I stare at Central Park. I’m still not sure yet. I’m not sure how this con’s going to go. But maybe. Maybe, if there’s a chance.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether I survive this one.”


	10. I can feel them coming for me

The security of the FBI headquarters in New York City is a joke for Virginia Everard. It’s not a Steranko—the Leverage crew is pleased—and while it’s high security, she’s in. She’s inside it before we’ve even gotten our morning coffee. I’m still not positive which side she’s on. She’s done so much contracting work for the U.S. Government, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was technically a government employee, but like hell she would ever actually take it full time.

At least now, she’s decided to use her powers to help us.

Vi is working the phones and the computers at the hotel. She’s got inside the security, but like Hardison had mentioned a couple nights ago, it would be impossible to erase the files we needed remotely. Hardison had to get on the computers in the building.

Luckily, somehow, Hardison and Parker already had viable ids: Special Agents Thomas and Hagen. It’s convenient. Hardison makes me an alias as fast as he can with Bea’s information—Special Agent Barzini.

We’ve got two days left. We’ve scheduled a meeting with the White Collar unit chief today to discuss the Woodford breakout. I really don’t believe it’s going to work this way, but I’m trusting them at this point. I’m here just as backup.

We enter into the building. Hardison and Parker stroll in in front of me, and I follow close behind. Eliot’s coming in with his alias, but holding back. In case we need backup.

As soon as we’re through security and heading up to the twenty-first floor, my curiosity takes hold.

“Hey, Vi?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she says through the comm.

“How’d you know how to get past the security system? I know it’s not a Steranko, but it’s still the FBI. It’s gotta be pretty damn serious.”

She clears her throat. “Uh. I’ve had some experience.”

“Experience with what, exactly?” Eliot says.

“Hey, don’t look a gift shark in the mouth,” she snaps.

“Where exactly do your loyalties lie?” I ask.

“Will you just trust me?” Vi snaps back. “You should ask Hardison why he’s confident we can wipe anything with certain keywords from the entire FBI and Interpol database.”

He looks at me out of his peripheral, then to Parker, and rolls his eyes. “Last con we did with Nate and Lara? You know which one—“

“I know which one,” I say. The Steranko, the Hightower. Where they got the black book.

“While we were in the server room, I left a back door. A nearly impossible to get to back door, but a back door. If I can get in to the system and run our program, the bug will crawl its way through the entire FBI and Interpol database as it does its little dance across the globe.”

“You put our information onto that bug too, right?” Parker whispers, leaning into him a little.

“Of course, baby. What do you think? I’ma protect our asses first. Screw Moreau.”

She smiles and I can’t help but smirk.

We’re on the twenty-first floor. It dings, and we’ve arrived. I stride in behind the two, looking as threatening as possible, and soon, we’re greeted by a good looking black agent.

“Agent Clinton Jones. Thanks for coming out. We’re looking through all our old files to see what we can do to track down Woodford.”

“Agents Hagen, Thomas, and Barzini,” Parker says, gesturing to each of us. He eyes me, but I don’t care—I’m wearing my badge around my neck like a plainclothes officer. He may be in a suit, but I’m holding on to my jeans. “We’re going to need access to everything. Computer files, paper trails—everything.”

“Right. I’m sure you’re going to want to talk to our Special Agent in Charge, Peter Burke.”

“I’m right behind you,” a voice says. He’s literally exactly what a Special Agent in Charge should look like. It’s so stereotypical, it’s sad. But there’s something in his eyes that tell a different story. I feel like he already suspects we’re running a con. “Peter Burke. Nice to meet you. We’ll set you up in the conference room.”

They lead us to a second floor glass incased conference room, where they’ve got three boxes and a computer waiting for us.

Burke follows us in. “We’ve combed through everything. I assure you, we’re doing our best to track down Woodford, but there hasn’t been a trace of him anywhere. Please do what you can to catch this guy.”

Hardison sits down at the computer, while Parker and I start sifting through the paper trail. When we approach him with silence, Burke meanders to the doorway. “If you need anything…”

I just glare at him and nod. He seems to get the picture.

“How long is it gonna take you to get into that?” I ask Hardison, who types madly.

“Already in, my Croatian friend. I just have to mask the program in the background and wait for it to do its magic. As long as this place has a server room, it’ll keep bouncing. What time is it?”

I check my watch. “Nine forty-two.”

“Three minutes, and the files hit NYC’s server. It’s not going to take long. Fly, my pretties, fly.” I’m not sure what he’s talking about: us, or the computers. I don’t think about asking.

But I hear alarms somewhere—somewhere on the comms.

“Shit! Shit, shit,” Vi mutters. “They’ve already found the bug. Damn. They upgraded their systems since the last time I’ve been in here. You guys have about ten minutes to get out of there. I can hold them back for as long as possible, but they’re gonna know it’s you.”

“Hardison?” Parker hisses.

“I’m good, baby, I’m good.”

“Security is lookin’ sketchy down here,” Eliot says. “I can maybe hold ‘em off, but you need to clean up this mess and fast.”

“Parker, step aside.” She moves away from the files, and I reach into the heavy stacked heel of my boot. Pulling away the bottom, I find my device—my handy 5-gram detonator. I’ve got plenty, but I hope to God it’s enough to destroy the files. Wasn’t the original plan, but was good enough to be my plan B. I arm it.

“Bea, make the call.”

From the comms, we hear her make the phone call to Agent Burke.

“Burke, this is the Boston ASAC Christine O’Neill. I can’t reach my agents—they’re supposed to be at your office. We have a break in the Woodford case and I need to recall them ASAP.”

“Absolutely. I’ll send them your way.”

“Thanks, Burke.”

“Anything I can do to help.”

At the end of the phone call, he immediately ducks in. “O’Neill called. You’ve caught a break.”

I’m already headed for the door, and I see Hardison do a slight of hand trick to pull the memory stick from the computer. We don’t say anything else: we just power walk to the door.

“Hardison, did you have enough time?” Eliot says over the screaming alarms on Vi’s end.

“We’re solid,” he mutters back.

“Uh oh.”

“Eliot? Why is there an ‘uh oh’?” Parker asks quickly, pressing the elevator button.

“Take the stairs. They’re finding out about the security breach. There’s gonna be alarms—get to the stairwell. Now!”

Parker quickly throws open the stairwell door and gestures for us to go forward.

“Better start now. Twenty-one floors to go.”

As soon as the door shuts, the alarms sound.

“Wait. I have a better idea,” she says, looking at the ‘Roof Access’ sign leading to a ladder.

“Baby. Baby, no,” Hardison says under his breath.

“Better make a decision fast!” I say, immediately standing in front of the door. I’m expecting agents with guns any second.

Well, until I hear the small explosion.

“Good to know that worked,” Parker says, reaching into the large briefcase she had been carrying and pulling out some sort of harness.

“You two go,” I say. Parker appears like she’s going to fight me, but I glare at her until she’s thrusting Hardison up the ladder. The door bounces. I hear yelling.

They know it’s us.

“Eliot, status?”

“Stable. They keep comin’. Security’s a bitch.”

I hear fumbling, then Hardison’s terrified scream along with Parker’s whoop of joy.

“The harness?” Eliot asks.

“The harness,” I say. “I’m comin’ down to you. Might be bringing friends.”

I check my options, and execute: I launch myself over the railing and make it to the next level of stairs. Before they can open the door, I jump down the next set and I’m off. I hear their footfalls, the ‘stop! FBI!’ but I’m already going and I can’t stop.

“Keep ‘em from the stairwell,” I cry to Eliot. I’m already to floor sixteen. I keep moving, although my leg and chest throbs. Life or death, Cee. Life or death.

“I am doin’—“ there’s a cut off of sound, a grunt—“The best I can!”

I’m to floor ten when I hear a door open. I don’t know if it’s above or below. I keep moving anyways.

“From the bottom,” Eliot says. “Floor six by now, probably.”

He’s not wrong. I hear the click of their guns and slow down as they accost me from below.

“Stop running. You’re under arrest.”

“You can’t arrest me,” I chuckle.

“And why not?” One of the agents challenges me.

“Diplomatic immunity,” I snarl, kicking the nearest agent’s gun from his hands. Before the one behind him can react, I nearly break her wrist pulling it from her. A solid punch to his face, and another from her, and they go down, groaning. I empty her clip onto the floor and step over her to keep running.

“Pretty sure I’ve heard you use that one before,” Eliot mentions. “Parker, Hardison, you good?”

There’s a groan/moan from who I expect is Hardison, then Parker, who’s out of breath: “We’re good! Meet you back at the hotel!”

“Vi?” I ask.

“Alarms still going, but I’ve locked their searches on a separate Trojan horse. It’s a little arky, but gets the job done. They’ll find it instead of our program and hopefully shut it down.”

“Arky?” Eliot asks, but seemingly shakes it off.

I explode out of the stairwell and find Eliot leaning against the wall. We’re moving. We’re mobile, and out the door.

“Hardison get the—“

“Yeah.”

Down Park Avenue. Cops are on the scene, but we slip between onlookers. I ditch the blazer I had thrown on, trying to blend in with the crowd. I unbutton my red shirt, pull my hair into a ponytail, as we walk. Eliot slides his glasses on and tosses his jacket into the nearest trash can. We’re halfway to the hotel before I even breathe.

“You better hope this is all he’s gonna make you do,” Eliot mutters. It’s not a comment. It’s a threat.

And he has no idea what’s going to happen next.

I might. I just might.

* * *

We reconvene in the hotel room. Eliot and I are a little bloody, Vi and Bea just look tired, while Parker and Hardison are winded. They’re all already packed up by the time we make it back.

“You get it?” I ask Hardison. He holds up a handful of flash drives.

“Everything on us, Woodford, and Moreau, at least on the hard drive. Interpol and FBI. It’s like open season.”

“And you’ve wiped everything?” I ask Vi. She nods once. “Everyone gets a copy. I’m going to have to talk to Moreau, and I want that as far away from me as possible.”

I look at each in turn. “That’s it. Disperse, before he makes us do something else,” I say. Hardison starts tossing flash drives. Bea catches it, closes her fist, then twiddles her fingers like a magician who makes something disappear. Vi takes hers and holds onto it. I’m kind of curious, but she waves me off.

“I’m gonna hide it in my hollow leg later. Get it out of the country.”

“You scare me so much.”

“Thank you,” she says, clutching her heart. “That is sincerely comforting coming from you.”

Bea hefts her bag over her shoulder. “Bienvenue. You’ll know where to find me if you need me.”

“Have fun in exile,” I say, and Bea disappears. I know it’s not the last time I’m going to see her.

Vi packs up her computer and gives me a salute. “If you ever need me to hack the U.S. government again… well, just say my name three times in front of a laptop and I’ll find you.” She glances to Hardison, then back to Parker. She doesn’t say anything. Parker just gives her a small smile and a head nod.

And Vi wheels herself from the suite, disappearing into the hallway like Bea. At least I know we all have a clean slate. Now I have to settle things with the Leverage team.

“Thanks to you all. I appreciate what you’ve done for me. I couldn’t have done all this without you.”

“You? You’re gettin’ sappy,” Hardison says with a grin. “Nah, this isn’t supposed to happen. You’re a hitter. You don’t get sappy.”

“I’m not gettin’ sappy. I can still kick your ass.”

His grin falls. “Noted.”

We clasp hands, then fall into a hug before I turn to Parker. She pulls me into a hug immediately.

“We’ll let Nate and Lara know they’re safe,” she says.

“Thanks. Just don’t let them know how sloppy we were, alright?”

“Oh, no. Actually, they probably already know.”

I let her go and she just smiles. “There’s still time, you know. To find your purpose.”

I can’t really respond, and she knows it. I just smile.

Turning to Eliot, he just side eyes the other two and starts leading me to the door of the suite.

“What’re you gonna do now?” I ask.

“We’re gonna lay low today. Probably head back to Boston tomorrow.”

“Okay. Okay,” I say. “I’m gonna call up Moreau and let him know we’re done, then… I don’t know.”

“Disappear for another ten years?” He says. He’s not quite joking. I lean up against the door frame of the suite.

“I… I don’t think I want to disappear for another ten years,” I say. His permanent scowl falls a little.

“Alright. You seem to know how to find me if you need me.”

“Likewise.”

I lay a hand on the door knob, and he lays a hand on me. His lips are on mine before I can even react, and I don’t let myself try to breathe until he pulls away. I go to say something, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t. Don’t run your mouth and ruin it.”

With a smirk, I open the door and slide out. That’s it. That’s where I’m going to leave it. I don’t need anymore. Not right now.

I leave the Mark Hotel, and I start down Fifth Avenue, flipping open my phone. It rings twice.

“Swithey. Give me Moreau.”

There isn’t even a word spoken, not until I hear his damn voice again.

“Is it done?”

“It’s done,” I say, jumping the small wall to get into Central Park. The trees shade me as I walk through. “I’ve disassembled my team. We’re not doin’ anything else for you. If you want something, you’re gonna deal with just me.”

“Freeze! FBI!”

I roll my eyes. “You have something to do with this?” I ask the phone.

“They know you deleted those files, Cvijeta.”

I face the agents, still on my phone. It’s Jones and Burke and a few more agents. Looks like they got the SAC out from behind the desk.

“Listen, I’m not one to try suicide by cop, understand?” I say, both to them and to the phone.

“Then you’re just going to have to get arrested. What are the charges? Terrorism? I’m not even sure at this point.”

“So this is what your masterplan was? Not kill me, but put me in jail?”

“To live out your days in solitary confinement? Death penalty? Maybe. Not my first choice, but I’ll take it. It’ll leave me free to go after Spencer without your meddling.” Moreau says.

I stare down the guns. Six. That’s less than normal. But these are federal agents, in a public place. I do already hear screaming.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Burke says, but it’s too late.

I start running. I drop my phone, I drop Moreau, I smash it under my feet, and I start dodging my way through Central Park.

Unfortunately for those agents, I’m faster on my feet. They haven’t run through a Chilean jungle or a German forest, so I easily dodge through and before I realize it, I’ve come out on the other side near Hell’s Kitchen. I blend into the lunch crowd, ducking between people, knowing the cameras will catch me eventually.

God, my ribs throb. It makes breathing that much harder.

But they have no information. They’ve got no files on me, other than any paper trail they may have left. But I don’t really leave a paper trail.

I keep ducking through Hell’s Kitchen, until I pass an alleyway and I hear the cock of a gun. There’s no agents. There’s something worse.

“You did something stupid,” Moreau mutters. I feel his muscle man circle me, and I straighten. “I’ve got a plan B.”

I step sidelong into the alley, and I know I don’t have a lot of options. There’s six men, seven guns, and Moreau, and me in an enclosed space.

I start considering tactics when Moreau does something I don’t expect: he raises his arm against me, a revolver in his hand, and slams it against my temple.


	11. It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah

Before I open my eyes, I try to assess the situation. Unknown location. Tied to chair. No new injuries, save for another pistol whipping.

“Moreau…” I hear Swithey’s voice. “She’s awake.”

I don’t fake anymore. Instead, I open my eyes and case the area: the floor, cement, covered in dirt and rust and grime. I can’t really tell the time, because brush outside the doorway—where there isn’t a door—is so high, it covers the sky. I don’t know where we are, but it’s isolated. Probably outside of any sort of electronic range. How could they take me anywhere so quickly?

“What do you want?” I ask, holding my head high. Moreau, surprisingly, is still here: he steps around a twisted wire frame of a chair.

“You just had to go rogue. This didn’t have to escalate to this point, you know.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t think there’s a point. Woodford joins him, whispers something in his ear, then Moreau nods.

“You’re not going to get me to talk,” I say. “You didn’t last time.”

“Did we, though?” Foley asks. “Did we not get you to talk?”

I stay silent. Hopefully they’ll explain themselves.

Even Moreau himself decides to take this one on as Foley creeps around behind me. I don’t know what he’s doing, but I don’t like it. I don’t like the sound of what he’s doing at all.

“Where did you run off to after Foley and Swithey let you go in Boston?” He paces. I feel my heart race. No. He’s using me against myself. “And then, what did you do when we needed you and a team for a con? What about Nate Ford and Sophie Devereaux? They can’t give up that Dagger. See, the Venn Diagram of the people I want dead and the people you align yourself with is a circle. You, for various reasons. Ulalume? She’s screwed me out of more heists that I can even count. Roxie Kander, Annie Fields, Eponine Natel… whoever she is now, Woodford has a vendetta against her. And when they come running to save you, I’ll make sure to destroy them. This is my endgame, Cvijeta. I know if I use you as bait, the entire Leverage team will come running. And I’ll be waiting.”

I look over my shoulder. I cringe, but I see what Foley’s doing.

He’s setting a bomb.

“Dammit, Moreau. You know full well I’m gonna get out of this, and then I’m gonna come for you. I’m gonna make sure there’s no way you can do something like this to anyone again.”

He twists his finger in the air, and his mooks start to collect. “Don’t worry, Cvijeta. We’ll be over the East River, away from here, just far enough to watch the plume of fire and smoke as everyone dies.”

“Be optimistic,” Woodford says, “at least it’s a quick death.”

“Hey, Moreau!”

He stops walking, just barely enough.

“We didn’t delete the files.”

With a chuckle, he nods. “I know. I may have gotten your drive, but you saved them, didn’t you? And who has them?”

“Everyone on my team. Go ahead and try to hunt them down. Because I’ll get to you first. I’ll always get to you first.”

“Cvijeta, and what good will those files be when everyone who has them is dead?”

I close my eyes, and the sound of footsteps alert me to their exit.

I don’t know how much time I have. He said the East River, so we’ve got to be somewhere in New York City still.

Eliot still has a chance to save me.

I wrench on my bonds. The ones around my chest are just high enough to hit my ribs, and while they’re healing, I can’t do much else but let the tears run down my face. God, it hurts, but it’s my only way out. I shift, I move, and soon, I can wiggle my elbows out. Feet—feet next, I move them around, I stretch out the rope, and pull my heels free. I can stand up, and the chair shifts a little, but I can move the rope from before over the top and off the chair. I’ve gotten myself free of the damn chair, so I jump through the loop of my arms and rip my hands apart. The duct tape gives way easily.

They can’t have gotten far. They’ve still got to be on the island, and they didn’t even leave a sentry just to make sure.

I look over the detonation device. Of course it’s C4. He’s not going to say no to poetic irony.

It’s set to explode in an hour. My watch says it’s nearly nine p.m. They want a light show.

I pull out my own detonator from my boot. Of course they didn’t think to check there. Quickly, I disarm the bomb and attach my own detonator. I set it to ten minutes from now and start running.

This place is covered in brush, in trees. It’s impossible to see, and it’s even worse now that it’s almost dark.

But I burst out near what looks like an old forgotten pier. I see the Bronx. I see, off in the distance, the remnants of Manhattan.

North Brother Island. I’m about to blow up the old Riverside Hospital. Sorry, Typhoid Mary.

“I told you she needed a guard!” Woodford yells, stepping past Moreau. They haven’t made their escape yet. Even better.

Woodford stands in front of me, blocking my exit, and without looking over my shoulders I know the other way out is blocked by two more men.

“So nice of you to make it a little more even,” I say, cracking my neck. We have five minutes.

“You sure about that?”

In my peripheral vision, I see another of his cronies appear to my eight o’clock, then my four o’clock.

“Five?” I say, stalling for time. If I can get the jump on the kid to my right, then I can go clockwise through them before ending on Woodford. It’s plausible.

My plan gets shot in the ass when the guy I couldn’t see directly behind me makes a grab for my wrists. He’s not going to subdue me. Two others rush me—one of them Swithey— grab my arms, and give me a pivot point—I jump, reel, and throw both feet into Woodford’s chest. I don’t see where he lands. Frankly, I don’t care. My elbow breaks a nose; my other elbow breaks a jaw. I weave, I tumble, and I’m up again. The young kid rallies, coming at me first. He’s cocky. I like that. I like it about as much as the sound of my knuckles forcing their way through his jaw. He looks at me like I’m some sort of mythical creature. I knee him in the balls and I’ve got one down.

The next two come at me; I back up, getting enough room between me and the next guy. He tosses a left hook. I block it with my forearm. His right hook, though, collides with my jaw. I reel, and he nails me with an uppercut. I stagger—I turn the corner of the remnants of a wall, and one of the guys pulls a gun.

Two minutes.

I slam his arm against the wall. Right hook, knee to the stomach, left hook. I’m a little bit of a Southpaw, so he goes flying, his head slamming into the brick. He goes down. When I look up, one of Woodford’s cronies sees it and steps back, pulling his own gun but not raising it right away.

I have to laugh. Spencer taught me that move.

When I start laughing, though, the guy takes one more step back. I wipe blood from my lips, realizing how frightening I probably look.

But he starts to rush me, and I start to rush him and we collide. Before I realize it, I’ve got his gun. I slam it against his temple, and he immediately crumples.

One minute.

My head burns, my lungs burn. I wipe sweat from my forehead, and my arm comes away wet and bloody. Dammit. I’ve gotta get out of here. The sun’s setting, and soon it’ll be down below the horizon, shrouding this area in darkness. I’ve just got to get the fuck out of dodge.

“Good try, Novak.”

I use my body weight to throw a punch and spin, not even sure where it will land. Foley stops my punch with his hand, spins my arm so I have to move with it if I don’t want my arm broken. He’s weak. He’s small. I decide the broken arm is worth it and spin back. But I don’t have to worry about the possible broken limb—

The entire Riverside Hospital explodes, sending a massive fireball into the air and singeing the trees. Most of them start on fire, but the majority of the bricks become shrapnel.

I pull myself up from the ground after the explosion. It did throw me far enough from Foley to start running. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m getting the hell out of here.

Where the hell did Woodford go?! I scan the forest, but I’m woefully in the open—

I feel the bullet rip through my skin before I hear the gunshot. The force of it throws me forward, and running footsteps cut me off from behind. The cold steel of a handgun presses itself against my temple. I don’t move. I can’t move—

I wake up on my knees. We’re in the dark—I hear water; I see the lights of the metro area. The sun’s set since I set the bomb off. We’re still on North Brother Island. The west side, on the broken pier. From off in the distance, I see the Hell Gate Bridge, I see blue and red lights. Everything’s shrouded in smoke and flickers in the flame light.

Fitting. I know what’s about to happen. I’m not an idiot. I’ve been here before. With a lot less blood loss, but I’ve been here before. Hands tied in front of me, ankles and knees tied together. Arms secured to my sides by a tightly wound piece of rope across my chest. I can—I can get out of this. I can totally get out of this.

It hurts to breathe. Probably the gunshot wound. Broken ribs didn’t help. You’ve gotta—you’ve got to think more clearly, Cee. Come on. But the pistol whipping’s made me hazy.

My eyes finally adjust and I see Swithey in front of me, holding a sawed off shotgun.

“Tell Woodford I rather favored his handgun,” I snap. “Where is he, anyway? And Moreau?”

“I would cut back on the smartass comments,” Swithey just says.

I don’t speak. I just stare at him. He slams the butt of his gun into my ribs. I double over, bracing my fall onto the pier with my hands, still bound. He winds up and slams the butt of his gun against my left hand, my fingers—

I bite back my lip. I can’t scream. I can’t let him know how badly it hurt, I can’t—I can’t. Staying down, laying against the wharf, I just draw a labored breath through my teeth and wait for the next thing.

He doesn’t wait. He winds up and slams the butt of his shotgun into my wrist next. At least I know it’s a clean break.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for a while, you know,” he mutters next to me. I—I stay down, trying to regain my senses. I look at my hand—I can see blood, even in the dark. It throbs with my heartbeat.

He ties something to my ankles, a rope, or something—he kicks it into the water and it makes a heavy splash. It starts to drag me towards the edge, but he stops me, grabbing my shirt collar tightly in his hand once I raise up. I can’t quite breathe.

“A long time ago, Novak, you may have been good at your job,” he muses.

“What, is that all you’re gonna say before you try to kill me? I’m—I’m disappointed in you.”

He sets his jaw, winds up his fist and socks me in the face.

“Go to hell,” he mutters, kneeing me in the stomach once more. He lets go of me; I realize that’s exactly what he wanted: I scrape against the wood. I slide, end up on my side, and I can’t stop myself from moving. I slide off the wharf.

As I fall, I swear I hear Eliot’s voice yelling my name. Wishful thinking. Wishful—

I don’t get in a breath before I slide under the water. I close my eyes, not wanting to try to see through the cold darkness. I should have more time than this. I should—I have to unknot my ankles, if I could reach them.

I can’t move. I can’t breathe. The weights on my ankles hit riverbank dirt. I’m at the bottom, I can’t breathe, everything is sharp and painful and bloody and slow.

Thrashing, I try to reach for my ankles, but everything aches, my lungs burn, my head throbs. If I just move down, shift just enough, I can reach my ankles, I can untie myself.

I find the knot. I find it, but my lungs burn, I rip at it, I tug, but the knot is too tight and my arms are too weak.

I can reach the knot. I can pull it, I can—just a little more force. Dammit! I should be able to break it. I should be able to break the knot, but I’m afraid this is only going to break me.

It’s been over a minute now. I feel my heartbeat. Already, the dark threatens to take me.

I’m drowning and Eliot can’t do anything to save me.

He’s not coming. He’s not going to make it in time.

He’s not going to save me this time.

I gasp, unable to hold it any longer. Water floods into my lungs. The sharp, gentle cold slides down my throat, and I can’t even cough. I can’t scream. I can’t—I can’t fight. I can’t breathe.

But suddenly, I have clarity.

My heart will stop, and that—that’s it. That’s it. I want to scream, I want to fight, I need—I never told him. I never actually told him. I haven’t said it. Not since Kiev.

I try to hold on. I know I can’t. The water has filled my lungs. I’m as good as dead.

I hear his voice, though. I hear him singing—it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah….

* * *

The pain floods back. How long had I been under? Am I alive? I might be alive. I’m not positive. I try to take a mental check, but I’m suddenly coughing, throwing up water and anything else I can get out of my body. God, it sends shock waves through me, from my shoulder to my ribs to my wrist. I struggle to breathe, but it feels weird. I’m breathing again. How long was I not breathing? How—how long—

“Throw me the knife,” I hear—Nate? It can’t be Nate. My legs are freed, but I’m cold, I’m too cold. They burn, I feel pins and needles in them as I regain feeling. Nate. Nate, coming to my rescue yet again.

“Charlie, can you hear me?” Eliot says. Someone cradles my face. I try to breathe, but it all burns. The black beckons. There was too much water in my lungs. I want to cough, but there’s nothing left in me to get rid of. “Hey. Hey! Charlie. C’mon.”

“Swithey,” is about all I can muster.

“He’s dead,” Parker says, sounding like she’s pretty proud of that fact. I try to open my eyes, but one is nearly swollen shut.

“Woodford? Moreau?”

“Gone,” Lara says. “We have to go.” She grabs what looks to be Eliot’s plaid shirt and pushes it against my shoulder. I try to grab it, to apply pressure, but my hands shake too much. Everything’s cold and tired and bleeding and no air.

“How?“

“Tracker,” Hardison says, waving his phone, then pointing to my watch. He still looks worried. I would too.

“She’s gonna live, right?” Parker says, with desperation in her voice.

“She’s gonna live, Parker,” Eliot mutters. I finally look to him, and he’s soaking wet. Of course. He lifts me up and I can’t help but shiver. It’s not even that cold.

“Nate,” Eliot says with urgency. I try to breathe, I try to breathe regularly, but it all hurts. Everything hurts. I’ve got a little bit of déjà vu.

“She’s going into shock. Hurry up,” Nate says.

There’s a boat. Of course there’s a boat, how else did I get here? It’s an island, isn’t it?

“All of this—Moreau wanted to kill me. He wants to kill all of us.”

“We know, babe, we know,” Hardison says. He tries to calm me. He’s always trying to calm me.

“He set—he set it all up. He got away. Moreau got away. He promised—he said he would come for us.”

“Don’t worry about that right now,” Nate says. He comes into my frame of reference. I’m tired. I’m so tired.

The boat should be louder, but I waver. I lean my head back on Hardison’s knees. He pulls my hair back, stealing a hair tie from Parker. When I reach for his hand, he grabs it, grasping tightly.

“No worries, Cee. We got you. You gotta stay awake again. Can you do that?”

“For you, yeah,” I hoarsely whisper, but already feel like a liar when my head lulls against his knees.

“Woah, girl. We gotta know what happened, okay? Can you do that?”

“P-pistol whipped. I’m trying—I’m thinking. Gun—gunshot wound. My ribs… still hurt,” I manage. I still sound hoarse. “Broken hand probably, and broken—broken wrist. Alec. Alec, where’s—where’s—”

“I’m right here, Cee,” Eliot says, his attention on Parker.

“Are we going to have to do this—” Parker begins, but Eliot cuts her off with a curt nod.

I’ve all but blocked out the pain as Hardison applies pressure to my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for—for this. For all of this. You shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have gotten you…”

“Girl, we would have gotten involved anyways,” Hardison says.

“You’re Eliot’s friend,” Parker says simply, like that’s the most explanation anyone needs.

Eliot’s still soaking wet. He’s the one who jumped in to pull me out. Of course he was.

The boat is so quiet. It should be louder, shouldn’t it?

But we start to stop. There’s a pier. Dry land. I’m cold. I see the van—

I saw the van. We’re in the van, and they’re talking to me, trying to wake me up.

“How is she?” Lara asks from the front seat.

“Pale, pulse is high,” Eliot says, looking at my hand, “Drive faster, Nate.”

I try to stay awake. Hardison runs a thumb over my knuckles, brushes water droplets from my face. I try to stay alert, but I find myself drifting until the van finally stops.

“Parker—“

“Yep,” she mutters, and disappears, Hardison slips out from under me, and Eliot shifts, jumping down from the sliding door.

I’m still shaking, I’m wet, I’m cold, I’m covered in my own blood, and can’t breathe correctly.

“Hey. Hey,” he murmurs, grasping my face in his hands. I lean into his warmth. “I’ve got you.”

I hold my arm tight to my chest, but he takes my hand and places it behind his neck. I feel incredibly small suddenly when he pulls me into his chest. I feel so incredibly small.

“What floor? Nate, c’mon, what floor?”

“Top! Top floor.”

I nearly make a penthouse suite joke, but somewhere, somehow, I’ve lost my voice.

“Right, down the hallway, then left! Take her in there!” Lara says.

“She’s gonna get the bed all bloody—“ Parker says, her voice innocent.

“Don’t worry about it, Parker!” Lara says, her voice getting more desperate.

I drift until he sets me down somewhere inside, but I refuse to let go of him. I can’t let go of him. I don’t want to, I can’t, I just—

Eliot starts barking out orders, but I don’t hear them. I just keep repeating his name, I have to get his attention—

“Dude, she wants to talk to you.”

“Not now, Hardison!”

“Eliot, please!”

With Hardison’s encouragement, Eliot comes back to my side. I can’t focus on him, but I talk. I try to. If I don’t say it now, I may not have the chance.

My voice comes out weak. “El. Eliot, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for Kiev. It’s my fault. It was my fault.”

“Cee, this isn’t the time.”

“It is the time,” I say. “It is. I hate—I hate myself. I shouldn’t’ve. I was selfish. I’m sorry. I—I’m sorry. I—I meant it. I meant what—what I told you. I meant it.”

The more I say it, the more I repeat it, the more desperate I get—

He grasps my face, and he kisses me. “I’m not gonna let you die, Cee. Not this time.”

I manage a smile, but it’s cut short. I cough. I gasp for air, but nothing seems to come in. I try to keep my eyes—I have to—I have to hold on. I nearly drowned. I can’t die yet.

“What’s happening?” Hardison asks. “Oh, shit—“

“Collapsed lung,” Eliot says. The sharp pain continues, and I’m not sure where it’s coming from. Someone grabs my wrist.

“Rapid pulse,” Nate says. “You know what you’re doing?”

“I know what I’m doing,” Eliot repeats. I’m drowning again. I’m drowning and Eliot can’t do anything to save me.

“Whatever it is, do it fast,” Hardison says. I don’t hear much else, other than Hardison making some sort of noise of discontent, and then fingers, pushing gently against my ribs. I whimper and feel cold steel.

“You hear anything?”

“There. Right there,” Parker says. The sharp needle juts into my skin about the time I nearly pass out. I can barely feel it at this point, the adrenaline is so high, my skin is so cold, but my breath comes back in small gasps.

“Lara, kitchen. Ice packs. Go,” Eliot says. “Parker? Shoulder.”

Lara comes back, wrapping ice in a towel. She tosses it to Hardison, who takes his place near me by kneeling down next to me. I cringe when he places the ice on my black eye, my temple. “You know, girl, you have gotta stop gettin’ yourself into these damn fool situations.”

Eliot keeps delivering orders. Parker on the shoulder. Hardison, icing my bruises, pulling my hair back, muttering to me. Lara’s… she’s off to get more ice, probably for my broken ribs. Nate runs supplies. I keep my eyes on Eliot.

“I’m gonna have to reset it,” he says, seemingly to everyone, not to me. “Keep her down.”

He takes my hand, still throbbing, still broken, one side of my wrist, and he wrenches it. I hoarsely cry out, but they hold me down. Hardison keeps whispering, trying to calm me, but it’s not working. It’s so cold, and everything throbs.

“Alec,” I whisper. “I’m not—I can’t—“

“Like hell you can’t.”

I shake my head. “No, Alec. I can’t… I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.”

Parker nods. She knows. She knows better than anyone.

* * *

When I come to, I’m somewhere else. They—they moved me to the chaise lounge, in the middle of their living room, where I’ve sunk into the deep and wide cushions. Everyone else has left. Eliot sits on the couch, staring down at the coffee table, arms crossed and seemingly lost in thought.

“Guess I’m out of favors,” I say. My voice is nearly gone, but he looks to me, nearly startled. He’s at my side almost immediately.

“It’s my fault,” he starts. “I shouldn’t have—“

“Can we just… can we forget about shoulds and—and coulds? Can we start over, please?”

He gently sits on the edge of the lounge. “Start over? Could get a little complicated.”

“Why?”

He crosses his arms. “You aimed a Zastava M70 at me and yelled in Croatian.”

I chuckle but it hurts. “You wanted to know if I spoke Russian. You asked if I was alone, and I told you I was and I’d shoot you.”

“Yeah, well someone beat me to it,” he says, smirking. “You told me to go to the hospital down the street.”

“I didn’t want you to,” I confess. “I was scared.”

“Cvijeta—“

“Don’t do the whole name thing,” I say, already drifting off to sleep. “Are you—are you gonna stay up?”

“Probably.”

“Sit with me?”

He looks at me, takes a beat, then shifts to my other side. I move over, then readjust to lean my head on his shoulder. He slips his arm around me, pulling me close, and brushes my hair back from the butterfly bandages on my face.

“If we’re starting over, then let me the first to say thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, still fiddling with my hair.

“I really am sorry. For Kiev. For Brasov. For El Salvador. For Lebanon, and Belgrade, and.. and… For everything.”

“It’s over, Cee. It’s done. You’re… you’re forgiven.”

I let out a sigh. It hurts my chest, but with that exhale, the guilt melts away.

“I didn’t lie in Kiev,” I say, feeling myself already drifting back to sleep. “Not at the end. Not before… before. I know you—I know—“

“I know you know,” he cuts me off, his voice husky, “You were the closest I ever got again.”

“I’ll take it,” I whisper. “I’ll—I’ll take it.”

“Close enough?” He chuckles.

“Horseshoes and hand grenades, and love, apparently,” I mutter. This elicits a deeper chuckle. “Do me a favor?”

“Anything,” he says.

“Will you sing for me?”

“You got a request?”

“Do I even have to ask?”

He pushes my hair behind my ear, then kisses my forehead.

“Maybe there’s a God above, but all I’ve ever learned from love was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you. And it’s not a cry that you hear at night, it’s not somebody who’s seen the light, it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah…”


	12. It feels just like you said it would

We lay low there for a long time. I barely can move for the first few days, and it’s probably better that way: I sleep most of it off, just waking up enough to eat and make sure I’m okay.

They move in shifts, checking on me: much of the time, Hardison’s commandeered the televisions, or they’re discussing what to do about Moreau.

It’s in the middle of the night when Nate checks on me that I wake up from my first nightmare. I don’t know if he hears me, or if he’s already awake, but he’s holding my hand back from thrashing when I wake.

At first, all I can do is mutter his name.

“You’re fine. You were having a nightmare,” he says quickly, letting me go.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I repeat. It’s one of the only things I’ve been able to say lately.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he says matter-of-factly. “How… how are you doing?”

“I’m alive, thanks to you guys.”

“Ah, well, we’ve just got a home base.”

I groan. “And Moreau is in the wind.”

“We got ‘em before. We’ll get ‘em again.”

“I plan on it.”

“You should probably…” he gestures to me in general.

“I know.”

“So you’re considering it?” I hear Lara’s voice from the hallway. We both look up to her. “You’re considering going straight?”

“I… I don’t know yet. I’m still trying to figure out who I am after what happened.”

Nate stands up. He still manages to smirk at me. “I can think of some people who might be happy you went straight…well, straight-ish.”

Lara smiles. “Maybe just one, Nate.”

“Maybe just one,” he says, getting to his feet. “You’ve got a chance here, kid. This is the third time I’ve found you like this. Don’t count on a fourth.”

Lara mills about, accepting a kiss on her cheek from Nate as he heads up the curved staircase.

“He’s right, you know.”

“It seems like he’s right about a lot of things. Or he thinks he’s right about a lot of things.”

“I know you love him,” she says softly. “And I know he’s the closest he can get to loving you.”

“That always seems to be the problem,” I whisper.

“It’s the only thing that’s kept you alive this far, isn’t it?”

I close my eyes, clutching my ribs, trying to will them to heal. My shoulder still throbs, but it’s become such a standard at this point, I barely feel it.

I open my eyes again, and Lara gives me an ice pack, laying it across my broken ribs. Automatically they feel better.

“Just remember that.” She adds, letting me drift.

* * *

I’m not really sure how time’s moving as of late, but it’s dusk when Parker comes to me, alone. I’m awake this time, nursing a glass of water, although it hurts to even try.

She sits down next to me, wielding a bottle of Gatorade and a sandwich.

“Hey, Parker.”

“How you feelin’?”

“Still a little in pain. You know, broken ribs. Broken wrist. Gunshot wound.”

“That’ll do it to ya,” she says with fervor. “Here. Painkillers.”

She holds a large pill out in front of me. I first grin at her, then merely open my mouth and she drops it in. I swallow it without water.

“Any nightmares lately?” She asks, helping me sit up a little.

“I actually had a dream earlier,” I confess. “I don’t remember it, but I know I didn’t wake up screaming.”

She just smiles. She smiles knowingly.

“What are your plans next?”

“Plans?”

“What are you gonna do when you get healed up?”

“Go after Moreau. Take him down. Take down any of his sidekicks that get in my way.”

“I know that. I mean after-after.”

“After Moreau?” I sputter. “Shit, Parker, I don’t know.”

“I think you do,” she says. Her usual chipper persona slips into something more serious.

I think on it for a moment. I remember what she asked me a while ago, and to be honest, it’s been floating around my head. I’ve been alone for so long, I forgot what it meant to have backup.

“Find my purpose, maybe,” I whisper. With that, she leaves the sandwich and drink on the coffee table and leaves.

* * *

A couple days later, I find Hardison playing some sort of war video game on Nate’s massive television. When I wake up, and try to clear the bad taste from my mouth, he immediately pauses it, panicking.

“Shit, did I wake you up? I knew I shoulda waited. I can leave—“

“No,” I say, waving my free hand at him. “No, don’t. Actually. Don’t leave.”

“Oh,” he seems taken aback. “Alright, I don’t gotta leave. I can stay right here, girl. What’s up? You need anything?”

I lean up on the lounge, trying to adjust myself so I can sit up better. “Water would be nice.”

“Comin’ right up.”

I try to clear my head, yawning and stretching my back and shoulder the best I can before he comes back.

“Here you are,” he hands me a glass with a swirly straw.

“Do you bring these wherever you go?” I ask, sipping from the straw.

“I try. You gotta have fun somehow, right?”

I tuck my legs upwards, and he slides into the spot at the opposite edge of the lounge. With a flourish, he pulls my legs back down onto his lap.

“Alec, you’re one of the good ones,” I say, finally feeling like I can breathe again.

“Aww, shucks,” he says, winking at me. “Can you just, uh, write that down so I can give it to Parker as proof?”

“I’m pretty sure she knows.”

“Sometimes she does, sometimes she don’t, let me tell you.”

“What’s it like working on a crew like this for so long?”

He goes from confused, to a look of recognition, then finally, he starts to answer.

“This ain’t a crew anymore. It’s a family.”

“And how did you get to that point?”

“Shit like this,” he rests his arm over my ankles. “It stopped being ‘I owe you one’ and became ‘I’ve got your back’. That’s when you know. Why? You thinkin’ about startin’ a crew?”

“I don’t know,” I say, picking at the wrap on my arm and the splints on my fingers. “Considering it.”

“Wanna know somethin’?” He whispers. “From where I’m standin’, you already got a crew. Y’all just don’t know it yet.”

“Vi and Bea?”

He nods knowingly. “Y’all were a force. You know, a crew like that would be great for Leverage International. Ever consider a Europe branch?”

“Europe,” I say under my breath. “And what, be your back up whenever you need us?”

“Yeah. Maybe. I mean, it’d be cool, right?”

“It would be,” I say. No more contractors. No more PMCs. No more anyone, except me and my crew.

“You apologized for Kiev,” he says, changing the subject to something more somber.

“I did,” I say, staring at the tile floor. “I had to. I’ve never said it. I should have said it sooner.”

“You gotta say it when you’re ready,” he says. “And you were ready. And you know what? I think he understands.”

“I hope so, Alec. I hope so.”

* * *

I’m finally on my feet again before Eliot comes to speak to me alone. I look out over the city—it’s small from up here. It almost feels safe again.

“We intercepted a message from Vi,” he says, milling about the kitchen. “Don’t know where she is, but she’s trying to find Moreau. He’s went off the grid.”

“He knows. He knows we’ve got his information. He knows we can blackmail him,” I say, not moving from my perch at the window.

“Good. Let ‘em run.”

I try to readjust my sling around my neck, but before I can stop him, he’s lifting it up and alleviating some of the weight.

“You shouldn’t have gone off alone.”

“I shouldn’t have done a lot of things.”

“We could have protected you.”

“You saved me. That’s all that matters.”

“Dammit, Cee. You don’t get it. You shouldn’t… you can’t…” I finally turn to look at him, and he’s visibly frustrated. “You shouldn’t be alone in this.”

“I don’t think I am anymore.”

He leans against the window ledge, smirking.

“I meant my apology, you know.”

“You were bleeding out,” he counters.

“And I should have said it a long time ago.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear.”

“So you forgive me?”

“I will,” he says, crossing his arms. “You got plans?”

“Heal. Go after Moreau. Maybe start my own crew.”

“Hardison asked you to start a European office, didn’t he? He’s wanted one since we went international.”

“I’d say it’s a pretty good gig. I’m considering it.”

“Good,” he grunts.

“For now, though, I’m gonna lay low. This one… this one fucked me up a little.” I turn to him, and he gives me the once over, almost in response.

“You look like hell.”

“I feel like hell.”

“You’ve been shot more times than me now,” he says.

“I’m not sure I like having that distinction.”

We stand there for a while in silence, staring out the window at the city. It’s beautiful and terrifying all at once. Sometimes I imagine that’s how I look to certain people.

“El? Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?”

“Why that song? The song. Hallelujah.”

He shrugs noncommittally, but the longer I stare at him, the more visibly uncomfortable he gets and I unintentionally force him into an answer.

“My… my uh, mom used to sing it. She used to sing it a lot before she died.”

“Oh. Sorry I asked.”

“You’ve never asked me before now. Why?”

“I think I get it now. The song, I mean. I get the Biblical references and all that, but there’s more to it. It’s about… it’s just…”

He gently cuts me off, pulling me into a loose embrace. I can only draw him to me with one arm, but he clutches me enough for the both of us.

“’Love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah,’” he recites in his slight Oklahoman accent. “That’s what it is.”

I look up at him. He’s right. It’s not just the song he’s talking about. I know that much.

“That’s exactly what it is.”


	13. I built a home for me, for you

“God. Why is it so hot? Why don’t you have air conditioner in this truck?”

I wait for some witty statement about shutting up or stopping my complaining, but nothing comes. I look over to Eliot, driving his beat up grey truck, and he just clutches the steering waheel like it’s the only thing he can hold on to at this point.

“Earth to Eliot. Eliot Spencer, pick up on Aisle Five. Hey. El?”

“Can you just, can you stop speaking for just one second?”

I honor his request, although a little harsh. It’s fine. I don’t blame him. I’m anxious myself.

He parks the truck in the diagonal parking off 270, then sits. He sits, his hands still tight on the wheel.

“C’mon, Eliot.”

“I just need a minute, alright?!”

I move away, then open the truck door, hopping out.

“Cee? Cee, what are you doing? Cee, you can’t—don’t—“

He jumps out himself, stopping me on the sidewalk gently by blocking me from walking into the building.

“I’m going in, but only if you’ll let me,” I say. “I can go in first if you want.”

He sets his jaw, looking pale, looking nervously around the sidewalks of the nearly barren tiny village of Oklahoma. I swear I see tears welling in his eyes.

I pull his face towards mine with a gentle hand on his cheek.

“Please. Trust me when I say you don’t deserve any more regret.”

He searches my eyes for a second, then pulls me into a kiss. When I pull away, I step towards the door, still holding his hand, but he doesn’t quite make it.

“Can you—just check if he’s here.”

“Of course. El…”

“I know.”

I nod, letting go of his hand and pushing open the door. I’m hit with a blast of a rotating fan, somewhere in the midst of the piles of tools and hardware.

“Mister… Mister Spencer?” I call out, my voice wavering for no apparent reason. The man I remember from before—moderately tall, clean cut, military stance, about seventy—comes out from the back. I remember him completely, down to the bright blue eyes.

“Charlie Novak?” He asks, leaning on the countertop near the cash register and crossing his arms. It’s a very distinctive stance. I smile. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Uh, I got into a little bit of trouble,” I say, looking out the glass door. Eliot’s pacing outside.

“Looks like a little more than a bit.”

“Yeah, well. I was just in town and thought… I thought I would stop by.”

He just harrumphs.

“Hey, uh, do you think we could step outside for a second?”

He looks confused, but yells at who I think is a high school stock boy to watch the register before gesturing for me to lead the way.

My heart jumps to my throat, and I push open the door, going back out into the heat of the Oklahoman fall. Eliot, mid-pace, has his back to the entrance to the hardware store. When his dad steps out and around me, he double takes. First to me, then to Eliot’s turned back. He speaks up, his voice cracking.

“Eliot?”

He stops pacing. He stops, mid-step, and slowly turns.

“Dad.”

There’s a moment of silence, but for some reason, I’m not worried. I can’t be worried. I know how this plays out.

Eliot doesn’t seem to know.

His dad pulls him into a tight embrace, nearly matched in height, and after a second, Eliot finally embraces him. From my place on the sidewalk, I can see Eliot’s face. The tears roll down and he lets them.

I realize, then, while they hug in the hundred-degree heat in the middle of nowhere in Oklahoma, that I’ve found it. I do have a purpose.

It’s not about the breaking of thrones or cutting of hair. It’s composing, the fourth, the fifth—

I don’t have to tear things down anymore. It may be a broken Hallelujah, but it’s still a Hallelujah.

And this is where it begins.


End file.
